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^ENTERTAINMENT 

SPEAKER^ 

EDITED BY 

William Montgomery Major 



Albert Whitman & Company 

is/iers 

CHICAGO U. S. A. 




TIU&oi 

Speaker 


The Entertainment Speaker 

Copyright, 1927 

By Albert Whitman & Company 


JUST RIGHT GIFT TITLES 
Flag of Our Hearts 

Edited by W. Montgomery Major 

In Ocean Land 

By Emily Paret Atwater 
The Woods in the Home 
By Hope Daring 
Merry Christmas Stories 

Edited by W. Montgomery Major 


*>, 


“A Just Right Book” 
Printed in the U. S. A. 




PREFACE 


“The Entertainment Speaker” has been made to fill 
a need for a collection of speaker poetry that contains 
both original and classical material. 

The variety of mood and expression, combining 
well-known favorites with new and original selections, 
lends itself to a more varied program of recitations. 

While primarily intended for young people, some 
poems for older folk have been included, suitable for 
those who are advanced for their years. 

The content ranges from the new selections by 
Clara J. Denton to the older favorites by Longfellow, 
Hemans, Whittier, Holmes and others. A few lesser 
known yet worthy pieces have been included, such as 
“The Jackdaw of Rheims” which is seldom found in 
speaker material although anthologists such as Sted- 
man consider it one of the masterpieces of humorous 
English verse. 

Dramatic, humorous, serious, fanciful, patriotic— 
the endeavor has been to include some verses of each 
mood and suitable for every occasion and place, the 
home, school or church. 

—W. M. M. 















CONTENTS 


Page 

Let’s Pretend, Clara J. Denton . 15 

Honor to Whom Due. 16 

The Shamrock . 17 

The Pine Tree Maiden. 18 

Choosing . 19 

The Seed . 21 

Action . 22 

Good Will . . 24 

The Giver of All. 24 

“Cease Firing”. 26 

My Daddy . 27 

New Year’s Day. 28 

Our Greatest American. 29 

The Happy April Fool. 30 

Christ Is Arisen. 33 

Doubt . 34 

Maytime . 35 

A Mother’s Love. 36 

United . 37 

The Flag We Love. 38 

A Ride for a Vote. 39 

Columbus, Clara J. Denton . 42 

A Tragic Story, William Makepeace Thackeray . 44 


7 

























CONTENTS —( Continued) 


Page 

The Height of the Ridiculous, Oliver Wendell Holmes . 45 

Over in the Meadow, Olive Wadsworth . 47 

The Walrus and the Carpenter, Lewis Carroll . 50 

The Dog of Reflection, Jeffreys Taylor . 55 

The Lion and the Mouse, Jeffreys Taylor . 56 

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat, Edward Lear . 58 

The Mountain and the Squirrel, Ralph Waldo Emerson . 60 

A Milkmaid, Jeffreys Taylor . 61 

Marjorie’s Almanac, Thomas Bailey Aldrich . 63 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, Thomas Gray . 65 

I Remember, I Remember, Thomas Hood . 71 

Those Evening Bells, Thomas Moore . 73 

I Love Little Pussy, Anonymous . 74 

Under the Greenwood Tree, William Shakespeare . 75 

Twinkle, Twinkle, Jane Taylor . 76 

The Chambered Nautilus, Oliver Wendell Holmes . 77 

The Village Blacksmith, Henry W. Longfellow . 79 

Escape at Bedtime, Robert Louis Stevenson . 81 

Hearts, Like Doors, Anonymous . 82 

A Boy’s Song, James Hogg . 83 

For A’ That and A’ That, Robert Burns . 84 

The Deserted Village, Oliver Goldsmith . 86 

The Three Fishers, Charles Kingsley . 88 

The Inchcape Rock, Robert Southey . 89 

Big and Little Things, Alfred H. Miles . 93 

How Doth the Little Busy Bee, Isaac Watts . 95 

A Song of a Doll, Charles Kingsley . 96 


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CONTENTS —( Continued) 


Page 


Ajax, Phoebe Cary . 97 

Little Things, Ebenezer Cobham Brewer . 99 

Dirty Jim, Jane Taylor . 100 

Wishing, William Allingham . IOI 

The Kitten at Play, Anonymous . 102 

Suppose, Phoebe Cary . 103 

The Bridge, Henry W. Longfellow . 105 

Abou Ben Adhem, Leigh Hunt . 109 

Old Ironsides, Oliver Wendell Holmes . no 

Charge of the Light Brigade, Alfred Tennyson . in 

Warren’s Address at Bunker Hill, John Pierpoint . 114 

Peace, Anonymous . 115 

George Washington, Anonymous . 116 

The Minstrel Boy, Thomas Moore . 117 

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, Felicia Dorothea Piemans. 119 

My Old Kentucky Home, Stephen Collins Foster . 120 

Pocahontas, William Makepeace Thackeray . 121 

Casabianca, Felicia Dorothea Hemans . 123 

The Leak in the Dike, Phoebe Cary . 125 

“Curfew Must Not Ring To-Night,” Rose Hartwick Thorpe. . 132 

Words of Welcome, Anonymous . 137 

“Quite Like a Stocking,” Thomas Bailey Aldrich . 138 

God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen, Dinah Maria Mulock . 139 

The Holly Tree, Robert Southey . 140 

Christmas Greeting, Lewis Carroll . 142 

Hymn for Christmas, Felicia Dorothea Hemans . 143 

Mercy, William Shakespeare . 144 


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CONTENTS —( Continued) 


Page 

Sonnets, William Shakespeare . 145 

Lines Supposed to be Written the Night Before His Execution, 

Sir Walter Raleigh . 147 

The Battle of Agincourt, Michael Drayton . 147 

On His Blindness, John Milton . 153 

From “An Honest Man’s Fortune,” Fletcher . 154 

Providence, William Cowper . 154 

To a Mountain Daisy, Robert Burns . 156 

Bannockburn, Robert Burns . 158 

The Tiger, William Blake . 160 

Lochinvar, Sir Walter Scott . 161 

Before the Battle of Waterloo, Lord Byron . 164 

A Farewell, Charles Kingsley . 167 

The Burial of Sir John Moore, Charles Wolfe . 168 

Pirate Story, Robert Louis Stevenson . 170 

The Land of Story-Books, Robert Louis Stevenson . 171 

The Battle of Blenheim, Robert Southey . 172 

The Retired Cat, William Cowper . 175 

The Eagle, Alfred Tennyson . 180 

Columbus, Joaquin Miller . 181 

Concord Hymn, Ralph Waldo Emerson . 183 

Barbara Frietche, John Greenleaf Whittier . 184 

The Bugle Song, Alfred Tennyson . 187 

The Ship of State, Henry W. Longfellow . 188 

Boats Sail on the Rivers, Christina Georgina Rossetti . 190 

Why Repine, My Friend?, Walter Savage Landor . 190 

To a Waterfowl, William Cullen Bryant . 191 

10 




























CONTENTS —( Continued) 


Page 

Breathes There A Man, Sir Walter Scott . 193 

Bruce and the Spider, Bernard Barton . 194 

Make Way for Liberty, James Montgomery . 196 

Young and Old, Charles Kingsley . 199 

The Gloves and the Lions, Leigh Hunt . 200 

Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, Edward FitzGerald . 202 

The Jackdaw of Rheims,, Thomas Ingoldsby . 203 

The Onset, Barry Cornwall . 208 

Polonius’s Advice to Laertes, William Shakespeare . 210 

Rienzi to the Romans, Mary Russel M it ford . 211 

Nursery Reminiscences, Thomas Ingoldsby . 213 

The Ride to Aix, Robert Browning . 215 

Ivan the Czar, Felicia Dorothea He/nans . 217 

The Patriot, Robert Browning . 220 

The Seminole’s Defiance, G. W. Patten . 222 

Curse of Kehama, Robert Southey . 224 

Truth in Parenthesis, Thomas Hood . 225 

Bernardo Del Carpio, Felicia Dorothea Hemans . 226 

The Ocean, Lord Byron . 231 

My Shadow, Robert Louis Stevenson . 234 

The Arrow and the Song, Henry W. Longfellow . 235 

Robert of Lincoln, William Cullen Bryant . 235 

The Song in Camp, Bayard Taylor . 238 

Sheridan’s Ride, Thomas Buchanan Read . 240 

Sir Galahad, Alfred Tennyson . 243 

The Sandpiper, Celia Thaxter . 247 

Crossing the Bar, Alfred Tennyson . 249 


1 







































The Entertainment Speaker 










The Entertainment Speaker 


Let’s Pretend 

If every day were Christmas day, 

How gaily life would dance away. 

On Christmas day we try to be 
From “envy, hatred, malice free,” 

So “let’s pretend,” as children do, 

That Christmas comes each day anew. 

Yes, let us try, just you and I, 

As all the year goes flitting by, 

To make each day, for you and me, 

From selfishness all pure and free. 

If all around should imitate 

These ways, Oh, wouldn’t that be great? 

If every one of us would say, 

“I’ll keep each day like Christmas day,” 
How. changed would be this thing called life, 
All free from selfishness and strife. 

So let’s pretend, again I say, 

That every day is Christmas day. 

—Clara J. Denton. 


15 



i6 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Honor to Whom Due 

O land so fair, O land so free, 

From every clime men came to thee. 

They fled away from carking care 
And sought thy restful, balmy air. 

A strange new land, wild tales were told 
Of riches great, of gems and gold. 

All cold indeed that throbbing heart 
Which did not seek thy better part. 

To reach a land all new and strange 
Where men in freedom sweet might range 
How could there be a greater lure 
Than here a foothold to secure? 

And thus to thee they early came, 

Upon thy soil a home to claim. 

Shall we not honor them the more 
Who early sought thy distant shore? 

To all of these, a noble race, 

Who first adventured, we give place, 

We bow to them most gratefully 
For this their land, so proud, so free. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


17 


The Shamrock 

This simple tale was told to me, 

I hope ’tis true, it ought to be. 

The good Saint Patrick preaching came 
To Erin’s Isle in Christ’s pure name. 

On hillside green he often stood 
And taught the eager multitude. 

One day the Trinity he taught, 

That holy truth with mystery fraught. 

But as his stirring words fell down 
He caught now here, now there, a frown, 
Across these speaking faces flew 
Dark waves of doubt, the signs he knew. 

Then stooping down a shamrock small 
He plucked and held before them all. 
“Lo! here,” he said, “is symbol shown 
Of three in one, yet each alone.” 

And then a revelation came, 

Faith lit each face, a sudden flame. 

The shamrock green from that great day 
Holds every Irish heart in sway. 




i8 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


The Pine Tree Maiden 

Listen to this queer old legend, 

Found in ancient Swedish lore; 

From a pine knot grew a maiden, 

All unknown the name she bore. 

Fair and queenly was her aspect, 

None could tell just whence she came, 

But she lived and won all loving, 

Toiled and played the human game. 

One bright day a knot well-fitted 
To a pine board in the wall 

Dropped, and left a small round opening; 
Quickly came this maiden tall, 

Listening gladly, long and often 
To the woodland music stirred; 

Small, and smaller grew her body 
As the magic sounds she heard. 

Then, at last, when none were watching, 
She became a tiny elf, 

Lightly through the knot-hole hurrying, 
Free at last she found herself. 

Far away to woodland dancing, 

Human ties forgotten soon, 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


19 


What were all their gauds and trinkets, 
Measured by the pine tree’s tune? 

Pine tree’s tune! how well she loved it, 
Melody so long unheard. 

Far and wide the grove she wanders, 
All her soul in rapture stirred. 

Lost to human trials ever 

Still she wanders glad and free. 

Listen, when the wind is blowing, 

You may catch her revelry, 


Choosing 

“Tell you which the dearest bird? 
Which the best song ever heard?” 
When upon a bush or tree 
Robin redbreast flutes to me, 

Then say I, “Oh, he is best, 

I’ll take him, you keep the rest.” 






20 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Then, when on the Maytime air 
Fall those notes of music rare, 
While the meadow lark in flight 
Shows his feathers snowy white, 
Then I wonder who will say 
There is aught to match his lay. 

While with bated breath I hear 
Oriole, with notes of cheer, 

“List!” I cry, “no gayer song 
E’er is heard from feathered throng. 
Singing from a tree-top tall, 

Oriole is best of all.” 

Next I hear the tireless wren, 
Telling o’er and o’er again 
All the joy his breast contains; 
Something in each note explains 
All it means to be a bird, 

With a heart by rapture stirred. 

But while thinking wren is best, 
Hark! across the woodland, stressed 
Comes brown thrasher’s gayest trill, 
And my heart is all a-thrill, 

While on high his paeans fall 
“Celestial bird,” I him would call. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


2 


Thus, indeed, what can I do? 
How select the best for you? 
Since the song which last I hear 
Strikes with sweetest tones my ear. 
So the last must be the best 
And there let the matter rest. 


The Seed 

This little brown seed 
Seems worthless indeed, 

As before us lifeless it lies, 

Ere time has grown old 
To joy ’twill unfold, 

A messenger full of surprise. 

The earth and the sky 
Together will vie 

And on the small seed do their part. 

So plant what you please 
And soon on the breeze 
New beauty will gladden your heart. 





22 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


The little brown seed 
Will fill all your need, 

Or whether of food or delight. 

O miracle great, 

You have but to wait, 

’Tis sure as the daytime and night. 

One law, bear in mind, 
Unchanging you’ll find, 

That thistle seeds thistles must bring, 
And love cannot grow 
From hatred, you know, 

Or weeds from the flower seeds spring. 


Action 

Clang of the city has begun, 
Clamor ceaseless from sun to sun, 

So far away that none can tell 
Bang of hammer from peal of bell. 
Blended together comes the sound, 
City’s reverberating “round.” 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


2 3 


Once on a time the desert peace 
Wrapped me close like a robe of fleece, 
Fierce the longing of heart and soul 
Writhing beneath that soft control, 
Longings intense for forceful stir, 

The city’s never ceasing whir. 

No desert peace, ’neath blazing sun, 

Can equal life where deeds move on. 

Bustle surrounding action’s sway, 

I hail with joy each dawning day. 

Steeped in sweet rest souls lose their wings 
Endeavor’s stir sweet harvest brings. 

To do, achieve, steep heights to climb 
Must bring each day a joy sublime, 

’Mid city’s roar my gay lips sing; 

The hammer’s harsh unceasing stir,— 
The wheels with all their merry whir,— 
The shriek of trains from action spring; 
For noise shows ceaseless, busy strife, 

No death is there, but restless life. 

Then hail to labor! everywhere, 

Honor to those who do their share. 




24 


THE ENTER TAINMENT SPEAKER 


Good Will 

A loving mind to all mankind, 

To all a true goodwill, 

Can never fail, though others rail 
Your heart with peace to fill. 

No other rule, though learned at school, 
Sweet joy can send a-wing, 

From youth to age on every page 
Write, “Love must true love bring.” 
If “Self” control your inmost soul, 

All clouded lies your way. 

No ray of light steals through the night 
To bring you “perfect day.” 


The Giver of All 

From Thee, O God, whence gifts descend, 
Today our hearts in praises bend, 

For common and uncommon gifts, 

The sunshine which through shadow sifts, 
The air encompassing around, 

The every-yielding, fruitful ground. 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


25 


The blue of sky, the green of trees, 

The cooling, whispering summer breeze, 
The gift of birds who sing and sing, 

The gift of thoughts which pleasure bring, 
The gift of water’s healing power, 

The gift of fruits and fragrant flower. 

For homes where happy hearts may rest, 
For parents, children, love confessed, 

For mercies crowding every day, 

And dotting all our busy way. 

For all Thy gifts we bless Thy name, 

And still Thy sure protection claim. 

We give to Thee our service small 
Who giveth all, Who giveth all. 

In lowly adoration now, 

Lo, at Thy feet we humbly bow. 

Forgotten nevermore can be. 

The love and worship due to Thee. 




26 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


“Cease Firing” 

Across the earth ran rivers red, 

While to and fro black hatred spread, 

And ruined hearth stones told the fate 
Of loving hearts left desolate. 

Imagination could not show 
Or understand the depths of woe, 

Which war spread o’er the harassed earth, 
While grief in every heart had birth. 

Then suddenly on wings of light, 

A message round the earth took flight, 

“Cease firing, now the war is done.” 

Sweet Peace at last the day had won. 

Would that those words more dear than gold 
The whole round world might still enfold 
And build the brotherhood of man 
Forevermore on this great plan, 

“Cease firing!” 

“Cease firing!” Yes, forget War’s art, 
Choose evermore man’s nobler part. 

Cease firing! Throw the guns aside, 

Forget War’s cruel, baneful pride. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


27 


My Daddy 

When I grow up to be a man 
Just like my daddy I will be, 

And if I have a little boy 

I’ll treat him like my dad treats, me. 

And every night I’ll play with him 
At shooting marbles “just for fun,” 

And I will tell him stories too, 

And he will laugh at every one. 

There’s no one like my daddy dear; 

Mothers, of course, are sweet and true 
But daddys once were little boys 
And know just what we like to do. 

And when he says, “What is it, son?” 

Why anything for him I’d do, 

I’d work and work and never shirk, 

And maybe run a mile or two. 

So if you ask what I like best, 

I’ll point right off to daddy here. 
There’s nothing in this whole, round world 
That I’d exchange for daddy dear. 




28 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


New Year’s Day 

New morn, new day, O gift sublime, 

A jewel from the hand of time. 

Who knows or good or ill befall 
Or who can count its treasures all? 

New morn, new day, oh, may it bring 
Great thoughts and deeds upon its wing, 
A- record make of goodness won, 

And* not one -deed we wish undone. 

New morn, new day not seen before, 

Our hearts in* aspiration soar. 

Oh, may it not all idly pass 

Like fine sand running through a glass. 

New morn, new day, a gift so rare, 

A priceless one beyond compare. 

And shall it pass all lightly by, 

Our impress leave, which shall not die? 

An impress from unselfish task 
Which gives, and no return would ask, 
This must the darkest day make bright, 
Envelope it in radiant light. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


29 


Our Greatest American 

As long as human speech 
Across this land shall reach, 

Of Lincoln, good and great, 

In high and low estate, 

Will all men tell. 

To hold our country true, 

This task undimmed in view, 

As if from Heaven sent 
“Increasing purpose lent” 

To all his thought. 

He spoke, the bondsman’s thrall 
Fell down at Freedom’s call, 
Now through this land so dear, 
No cry of slave we hear, 

Since all are free. 

Today from shore to shore, 
Repeating o’er and o’er, 
Lincoln, the mighty name 
Forever safe with fame, 

Must still remain. 




30 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


The Happy April Fool 

You may have heard the story old 
About the Duke of Lorraine told. 

The king of France, in bitter strife, 

Had captured Francis and his wife. 

In prison cell they languished long, 

But they had friends both wise and strong. 
By well-laid plans and careful thought 
Disguises to the cell were brought. 

That thus the Duke and Duchess might 
Go forth in peasant’s garb bedight. 

The jailers next they bought with gold, 

So they would pass “two peasants old.” 

But sentries at the city gate 

Too oft were changed to thus placate. 

The Duke and Duchess their disguise 
Must trust to pass the sentry’s eyes. 

A workman’s hod the Duke well bore, 

A basket filled with food in store 
The Duchess held like country dame, 

Why should the sentry ask each name? 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


3i 


Why should he halt with angry strife 
An honest peasant and his wife? 

How could a sentry’s prying eyes 
See royal pair in that rude guise? 

They gave the pass word straight enough, 
And he replied, as usual, gruff. 

Then on they went through fields so fair, 
Not his to question or to care. 

But ere an hour had passed apace 
A woman came with anxious face. 
“Duke Francis I have met,” said she, 
“His haughty wife passed close to me.” 

The sentry winked and waved his hand, 
“Oh, yes,” he said, “I understand, 

’Tis April first, I’ve been to school 
This is the day for April Fool.” 

“What do you mean?” she asked in scorn, 
“I knew this pair ere you were born.” 
“Oh well,” he said, “go on your way, 

I’ll not be caught by All Fool’s Day.” 




32 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


The story spread, “too good to keep,” 

And ere the king had gone to sleep 
To him at last ’twas idly told; 

He sent for steward, tried and old. 

“What is this tale?” he asked in fright, 
“Have I the story heard aright? 

Is’t true Duke Francis and his wife 
Have freedom won from prison life?” 

The steward answered, calm and cool, 

“ ’Twas just a silly, April Fool.” 

“But,” stormed the king with angry brow, 
“To prison send, I’ll know right now.” 

’Twas midnight ere the news came back, 
The pair had fled and left no track. 

But by that time no power of king 
To prison walls the two could bring. 

Left far behind was sunny France, 

For gold had brought a quick advance. 
For once indeed, how strange the tool, 
Great good was wrought by April Fool. 




THE EN TER TA IN MEN T SPEAKER 


33 


Christ Is Arisen 

Ring gladly bells this Easter morn, 
Another Easter day is born! 

Let Love’s white wing 
The tidings bring, 

O flowers, be sweet! 

O birds, be fleet, 

O breezes, soft the glad news speed, 
For Christ is risen, is risen indeed! 

Oh, for a choir of voices, 

Tuned to angelic notes, 

For man with man rejoices 
And far the message floats 
“Christ is arisen!” 

Oh, earth and sky and air, 
Redemptions tidings bear. 

Tell o’er the story true, 

Till earth is born anew, 

For Christ is risen indeed! 

O earth-worn pilgrim heed! 




34 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Doubt 

They met, ’twas St. Valentine’s Day, 

All in a candy shop. 

He offered her his candy box, 

She took one small mint drop. 

She, like a rose and lily mixed, 

He dark and debonair. 

“You’ll be my Valentine?” he sighed, 

She murmured, “I don’t care.” 

.Bystanders winked, and some declared, 
“Love at first sight is this, 

’Tis quite in keeping with the day 
That they no joy should miss.” 

But this fine day, like other days, 

Sped all too fast away 

And when the time of parting came 
Dejected, sad were they. 

And will they meet again when comes 
St. Valentine once more? 

Who knows? For she was half past three 
And he was just turned four. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


35 


Maytime 

Maytime is blossom time, 
Apple, peach and cherry; 
Maytime in every clime 
Bids the world be merry. 

Far and wide, from bush and tree, 
List the lilting melody. 

Maytime is cheering time. 
Come, now, altogether; 

Tell tales in merry rhyme, 

Sing of Maytime weather. 
Blue sky and balmy air, 

Happy hearts without a care. 

Maytime is nesting time; 

Sticks, a hair, a feather; 

Gay birds are searching round, 
Singly or together. 

Soon in crook of apple tree, 
Neatest little home we’ll see. 




36 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


A Mother’s Love 

Precious love of a mother, 

What plummet can sound it, 
Or what magic surveying 
Can serve to bound it? 

To the ocean’s depths diving, 

To silent stars reaching, 

All the love of the ages, 
Ceaselessly teaching. 

Never other hands holding 
So unflinchingly fast, 

Through all chances and changes 
The same to the last. 

An exhaustless love surging, 
Through what e’er may betide, 
All enduring and hoping 
In firm, deathless pride. 

Precious mother-love, reaching 
Beyond other earth love, 

Its example shines only 
In Heaven above. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


37 


United 

Old Glory proudly waves her folds 
Above our honored dead, 

And were they “blue,” or were they “gray”? 
No more we hear it said. 

The sons of blue, the sons of gray 
Together crossed the seas, 

And heartily Old Glory cheered 
When flung on foreign breeze. 

And none could tell which wore the blue, 
Or which Confederate gray, 

For all alike send out their cheers 
Upon the air today. 

And as they all together marched 
Nor north, nor south, they knew, 

But followed proudly everywhere 
The old “red, white and blue.” 

Remembered? Yes, from shore to shore, 
From mountain brow to sea, 

America must hold them dear, 

This land, united, free. 




38 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


The Flag We Love 

Fling out the flag, red, white and blue, 
O flag so free, O flag so true! 

To win respect from all the world 
Let every fold be now unfurled. 

Yes, lift the hand and bow the head, 
Let loyal words of love be said. 

These stars and stripes to you and me 
More dear than life itself must be. 

The red, for courage, faltering not; 

The white, all pure, without one spot, 
The blue, as love forever shines, 

Thus all things good our flag combines. 

Then bow the head and lift the hand, 
While waves this emblem of our land. 

It never has in dust been trailed, 

And ne’er to stand for right has failed. 

Beloved flag! the oldest, best! 

United north, south, east and west, 
Throb fast the hearts and dim the eyes, 
While high o’erhead this emblem flies. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


39 


A Ride for a Vote 

Strange tales we hear of battles won 
By riding hard from sun to sun, 

By riding hard more blood to spill, 

But not to scatter far good will. 

A very different tale I tell, 

Read it with care and ponder well. 

In Philadelphia’s stately hall 
The Congress met at freedom’s call, 
The call of patriots true and strong, 

To take a stand ’gainst bitter wrong, 
Against a tyrant’s harsh command, 
Where should have been a helping hand. 

Caesar Rodney, true patriot he, 

And delegate from “counties three,” 
Had no respect for George the Third, 
And angry grew at edicts heard. 

At home he staid, his daily task 
Money from all to freely ask. 

H ow could he ride away in pride 
When came the calls on every side, 
“Give us money, or all is lost, 




40 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Must freedom die because of cost?” 

And thus through “counties three” he went 
Daily upon this mission bent. 

In Congress fast the talk went on, 

And names for liberty were won. 

While few the friends for George the Third, 
One voice dissenting there was heard. 

Since lacked the vote of counties three 
“Rodney,” they cried, “must with us be.” 

Then mounted soon on swiftest steed 
A rider went at record speed, 

Came to Rodney of Delaware, 

“Now haste,” he cried, “our trials share. 

We need the vote of ‘counties three,’ 

Our land from tyrant’s hand to free.” 

“When stands the vote?” asked Rodney straight, 
“This very night when clocks strike eight,” 
Cried Rodney then, “No time to spare 
To cast the vote of Delaware, 

Although ’tis eighty miles away, 

I swiftly go to meet the fray.” 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


4i 


Hard he rode, while summer heat 
Covered with foam his steed so fleet. 

Hours flew by and towns the same, 

The towns well known to sight and name, 

Fleet horses came whene’er the call 
From Caesar Rodney, friend to all. 

Seven o’clock and Rodney came 
To Schuylkill red with sunset’s flame, 

On horseboat hitched the weary steed, 

While moved the bark at little speed, 

But Caesar Rodney took his stride 
Up Chestnut Street, with honest pride. 

Begrimed with dust, his face aflame, 

Into Congress brave Rodney came, 

All the stress of the half day’s ride 
Fell off, like garments thrust aside, 

And joy supreme thrilled through his heart 
As cast his vote for freedom’s part. 

Other great rides have stirred the world, 
Rides which great wrongs have rashly hurled, 
This one, I think, stands out alone, 

None other like it ever known. 

Caesar Rodney of “counties three,” 

Who rode to vote for liberty. 




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Long may his name through ages ring, 
Bringing to men today a sting, 

Worthless men who no ballots cast 
While wrong and sin go strutting past. 
Would there were more like Rodney true 
Who duty saw and did it too! 


Columbus 

Columbus sailed the “unknown sea” 

To find this world for you and me, 

Though overjoyed he kissed the ground 
He never knew just what he’d found. 

Old Asia’s wealth he sought to hold, 

But better far than gems or gold 
He found this land where man may be 
Unhampered, true, in spirit free. 

For this he sailed by night and day, 

While slowly wore the time away; 

For this he bore the murmurs deep, 

And hushed a thousand fears to sleep. 

O brave of heart, to purpose true, 

Only one vision still in view, 

What matter though dark threats were heard 





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43 


Only one hope his spirit stirred. 

Soon silenced all who railed at him 
And hushed each lordly prelate’s whim. 

Joy filled his spirit through and through, 

For he had found his dreams were true. 

Since sailing west he land had found 
No one could doubt the world was round. 
No more wild tales could trouble man 
Since all admitted true his plan. 

He thought to Asia he had sailed, 

Nor dreamed that he in this had failed, 
They say of broken heart he died, 

But this must ever be denied, 

For those who win their life’s desire 
Do not of broken hearts expire. 

Envoy 

A lesson wise we here may gain 
No earnest effort can be vain. 

Though still unwon the gold we sought, 
Some prize must come from labor wrought. 

—Clara J. Denton. 




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A Tragic Story 

There lived a sage in days of yore, 

And he a handsome pigtail wore; 

But wondered much, and sorrowed more, 
Because it hung behind him. 

He mused upon this curious case, 

And swore he’d change the pigtail’s place, 
And have it hanging at his face, 

Not dangling there behind him. 

Says he, “The mystery I’ve found,— 

I’ll turn me round,”—he turned him round; 
But still it hung behind him. 

Then round and round, and out and in, 

All day the puzzled sage did spin; 

In vain—it mattered not a pin— 

The pigtail hung behind him. 

And right and left, and round about, 

And up and down and in and out 
He turned; but still the pigtail stout 
Hung steadily behind him. 




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45 


And though his efforts never slack, 

And though he twist, and twirl and tack, 
Alas! still faithful to his back, 

The pigtail hangs behind him. 

—William Makepeace Thackeray. 


The Height of the Ridiculous 

I wrote some lines, once on a time, 

In wondrous merry mood, 

And thought, as usual, men would say 
They were exceeding good. 

They were so queer, so very queer 
I laughed as I would die, 

Albeit, in the general way, 

A sober man am I. 

I called my servant, and he came; 

How kind it was of him 
To mind a slender man like me— 

He of the mighty limb! 





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“These to the printer,” I exclaimed, 

And in my humorous way, 

I added (as a trifling jest), 

“There’ll be the devil to pay.” 

He took the paper, and I watched, 

And saw him peep within; 

At the first line he read, his face 
Was all upon a grin. 

He read the next—the grin grew broad, 
And shot from ear to ear; 

He read the third; a chuckling noise 
I now began to hear. 

The fourth, he broke into a roar; 

The fifth, his waistband split; 

The sixth, he burst five buttons off, 

And tumbled in a fit. 

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eyes, 

I watched that wretched man; 

And since, I never dared to write 
As funny as I can. 

—Oliver Wendell Holmes. 




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47 


Over in the Meadow 

Over in the meadow, 

In the sand, in the sun, 

Lived an old mother-toad 
And her little toadie one. 
“Wink!” said the mother; 

“I wink,” said the one; 

So she winked and she blinked, 
In the sand, in the sun. 

Over in the meadow, 

Where the stream runs blue, 
Lived an old mother-fish 
And her little fishes two. 
“Swim!” said the mother; 

“We swim,” said the two; 

So they swam and they leaped, 
Where the stream runs blue. 

Over in the meadow, 

In a hole in a tree, 

Lived a mother-bluebird 

And her little bluebirds three. 
“Sing!” said the mother; 

“We sing,” said the three; 




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So they sang and were glad, 

In the hole in the tree. 

Over in the meadow, 

In the reeds on the shore, 

Lived a mother-muskrat 
And her little muskrats four. 
“Dive!” said the mother; 

“We dive,” said the four; 

So they dived and they burrowed, 
In the reeds on the shore. 

Over in the meadow, 

In a snug beehive, 

Lived a mother-honeybee 
And her little honeys five. 
“Buzz!” said the mother; 

“We buzz,” said the five; 

So they buzzed and they hummed, 
In the snug beehive. 

Over in the meadow, 

In a nest built of sticks, 

Live a black mother-crow 
And her little crows six. 

“Caw!” said the mother; 

“We caw,” said the six; 




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49 


So they cawed and they called, 
In their nest built of sticks. 

Over in the meadow, 

Where the grass is so even, 
Lived a gay mother-cricket 
And her little crickets seven. 
“Chirp!” said the mother; 

“We chirp,” said the seven: 
So they chirped cheery notes, 
In the grass soft and even. 

Over in the meadow, 

By the old mossy gate, 

Lived a brown mother-lizard 
And her little lizards eight. 
“Bask!” said the mother; 

“We bask,” said the eight: 
So they basked in the sun, 

On the old mossy gate. 

Over in the meadow, 

Where the clear pools shine, 
Lived a green mother-frog 
And her little froggies nine. 
“Croak!” said the mother; 
“We croak,” said the nine: 




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So they croaked and they plashed. 
Where the clear pools shine. 

Over in the meadow, 

In a sly little den, 

Lived a gray mother-spider 
And her little spiders ten. 

“Spin!” said the mother; 

“We spin,” said the ten: 

So they spun lacy webs, 

In their sly little den. 

—O live Wadsworth. 


The Walrus and the Carpenter 

The sun was shining on the sea, 

Shining with all his might; 

He did his very best to make 
The billows smooth and bright— 

And this was odd, because it was 
The middle of the night. 






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5i 


The moon was shining sulkily, 
Because she thought the sun ' 

Had got no business to be there 
After the day was done— 

“It’s very rude of him,” she said, 
“To come and spoil the fun.” 

The sea was wet as wet could be, 
The sands were dry as dry. 

You could not see a cloud, because 
No cloud was in the sky; 

No birds were flying overhead— 
There were no birds to fly. 

The Walrus and the Carpenter 
Were walking close at hand; 

They wept like anything to see 
Such quantities of sand: 

“If this were only cleared away,” 
They said, “it would be grand!” 

“If seven maids with seven mops 
Swept it for half a year, 

Do you suppose,” the Walrus said, 
“That they could get it clear?” 

“I doubt it,” said the Carpenter, 
And shed a bitter tear. 




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“O Oysters, come and walk with us!” 

The Walrus did beseech. 

“A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, 

Along the briny beach: 

We cannot do with more than four, 

To give a hand to each.” 

The eldest Oyster looked at him, 

But never a word he said: 

The eldest Oyster winked his eye, 

And shook his heavy head— 

Meaning to say he did not choose 
To leave the oyster-bed. 

But four young Oysters hurried up, 

All eager for the treat: 

Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, 
Their shoes were clean and neat— 

And this was odd, because, you know, 

They hadn’t any feet. 

Four other oysters followed them, 

And yet another four; 

And thick and fast they came at last, 

And more, and more, and more— 

All hopping through the frothy waves, 

And scrambling to the shore. 




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The Walrus and the Carpenter 
Walked on a mile or so, 

And then they rested on a rock 
Conveniently low: 

And all the little Oysters stood 
And waited in a row. 

“The time has come,” the Walrus said, 
“To talk of many things: 

Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax— 
Of cabbages—and kings— 

And why the sea is boiling hot— 

And whether pigs have wings.” 

“But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried, 
“Before we have our chat; 

For some of us are out of breath, 

And all of us are fat!” 

“No hurry!” said the Carpenter, 

They thanked him much for that. 

“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said, 

“Is chiefly what we need: 

Pepper and vinegar besides 
Are very good indeed— 

Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear, 

We can begin to feed.” 




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“But not on us!” the Oysters cried, 
Turning a little blue. 

“After such kindness, that would be 
A dismal thing to do!” 

“The night is fine,” the Walrus said, 
“Do you admire the view? 

“It was so kind of you to come! 

And you are very nice!” 

The Carpenter said nothing but 
“Cut us another slice; 

I wish you were not quite so deaf— 
I’ve had to ask you twice!” 

“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said, 
“To play them such a trick, 

After we’ve brought them out so far, 
And made them trot so quick!” 

The Carpenter said nothing but 
“The butter’s spread too thick!” 

“I weep for you,” the Walrus said; 
“I deeply sympathize.” 

With sobs and tears he sorted out 
Those of the largest size, 

Holding his pocket-handkerchief 
Before his streaming eyes. 




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O Oysters,” said the Carpenter, 

“You’ve had a pleasant run! 

Shall we be trotting home again?” 

But answer came there none— 

And this was scarcely odd, because 
They'd eaten every one. 

—Lewis Carroll. 


The Dog of Reflection 

A dog growing thinner, for want of a dinner, 

Once purloined a joint from a tray; 

“How happy I am, with this shoulder of lamb!” 
Thought the cur, as he trotted away. 

But the way that he took lay just over a brook, 

Which he found it was needful to cross. 

So, without more ado, he plunged in to go through, 
Not dreaming of danger or loss. 

But what should appear, in this rivulet clear, 

As he thought upon coolest reflection, 

But a cur like himself, who with ill-gotten pelf, 

Had run off in that very direction. 






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Thought the dog, a propos! but that instant let go 
(As he snatched at this same water-spaniel), 

The piece he possessed—so, with hunger distressed, 
He slowly walked home to his kennel. 

Hence, when we are needy, don’t let us be greedy 
(Excuse me this line of digression), 

Lest in snatching at all, like the dog we let fall 
The good that we have in possession. 

—Jeffreys Taylor. 


The Lion and the Mouse 

A lion with the heat oppressed, 

One day composed himself to rest; 

But whilst he dozed, as he intended, 

A mouse his royal back ascended; 

Nor thought of harm, as Aesop tells, 
Mistaking him for someone else; 

And travelled over him, and round him, 
And might have left him as he found him 





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57 


Had he not—tremble when you hear— 

Tried to explore the monarch’s ear! 

Who straightway woke, with wrath immense, 
And shook his head to cast him thence. 

‘‘You rascal, what are you about?” 

Said he, when he had turned him out. 

“I’ll teach you soon,” the lion said, 

‘To make a mouse-hole in my head!” 

So saying, he prepared his foot 
To crush the trembling tiny brute; 

But he (the mouse) with tearful eye, 
Implored the lion’s clemency, 

Who thought it best at last to give 
His little pris’ner a reprieve. 

’Twas nearly twelve months after this, 

The lion chanced his way to miss; 

When pressing forward, heedless yet, 

He got entangled in a net. 

With dreadful rage, he stamped and tore, 
And straight commenced a lordly roar; 
When the poor mouse, who heard the noise, 
Attended, for he knew his voice. 

Then what the lion’s utmost strength 
Could not effect, he did at length; 




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With patient labour he applied 
His teeth, the network to divide; 

And so at last forth issued he, 

A lion, by a mouse set free. 

Few are so small or weak, I guess, 

But may assist us in distress, 

Nor shall we ever, if we’re wise, 

The meanest, or the least despise. 

—Jeffreys Taylor. 


The Owl and the Pussy-Cat 

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea 
In a beautiful pea-green boat; 

They took some honey, and plenty of money 
Wrapped up in a five-pound note. 

The Owl looked up to the moon above, 

And sang to a small guitar, 

‘ O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love! 

What a beautiful Pussy you are,— 

You are, 

What a beautiful Pussy you are!” 





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Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl! 

How wonderful sweet you sing! 

O let us be married,—too long we have tarried,— 
But what shall we do for a ring?” 

They sailed away for a year and a day 
To the land where the Bong-tree grows, 

And there in a wood a piggy-wig stood 
With a ring in the end of his nose,— 

His nose, 

With a ring in the end of his nose. 

“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling 
Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.” 

So they took it away, and were married next day 
By the turkey who lives on the hill. 

They dined upon mince and slices of quince, 

Which they ate with a runcible spoon, 

And hand in hand on the edge of the sand 
They danced by the light of the moon,— 

The moon, 

They danced by the light of the moon. 

—Edward Lear. 




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The Mountain and the Squirrel 

The mountain and the squirrel 
Had a quarrel, 

And the former called the latter “Little prig;” 
Bun replied, 

“You are doubtless very big; 

But all sorts of things and weather 
Must be taken in together 
To make up a year, 

And a sphere, 

And I think it no disgrace 
To occupy my place. 

If I’m not so large as you, 

You are not so small as I, 

And not half so spry: 

I’ll not deny you make 
A very pretty squirrel track. 

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; 

If I cannot carry forests on my back. 

Neither can you crack a nut.” 

—Ralph Waldo Emerson. 




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A Milkmaid 

A milkmaid, who posed a full pail on her head, 

Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said: 

“Let me see—I should think that this milk will procure 
One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure. 

“Well then—stop a bit—it must not be forgotten, 
Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten; 
But if twenty lor accident should be detached, 

It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be hatched. 

“Well sixty sound eggs—no, sound chickens, I mean: 
Of these some may die—we’ll suppose seventeen. 
Seventeen! not so many—say ten at the most, 

Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast. 

“But then, there’s their barley, how much will they 
need? 

Why, they take but one grain at a time when they 
feed— 

So that’s a mere trifle; now then, let us see, 

At a fair market price, how much money there’ll be. 

Six shillings a pair—five—four—three-and-six. 

To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix; 





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Now what will that make? fifty chickens, I said— 
Fifty times three-and-sixpence—I’ll ask brother Ned. 

“O! but stop—three and sixpence a pair I must sell ’em ; 
Well, a pair is a couple—now then let us tell ’em; 

A couple in fifty will go—(my poor brain!) 

Why, just a score times, and five pair will remain. 

Twenty-five pair of fowls—now how tiresome it is 
That I can’t reckon up such money as this! 

Well, there’s no use in trying, so let’s give a guess— 
I’ll say twenty pounds, and it can’t be no less. 

“Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow, 
Thirty geese and two turkeys—eight pigs and a sow; 
Now if these turn out well, at the end of the year, 

I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, ’tis clear.” 

Forgetting her burden, when this she had said, 

The maid superciliously tossed up her head; 

When alas! for her prospects—her milk-pail descended, 
And so all her schemes for the future were ended. 

This moral, I think, may be safely attached,— 
“Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched.” 

—Jeffreys Taylor. 




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63 


Marjorie’s Almanac 

Robins in the tree-tops, 
Blossoms in the grass, 

Green things a-growing 
Everywhere you pass; 

Sudden little breezes, 

Showers of silver dew, 

Black bough and bent twig 
Budding out anew; 

Pine-tree and willow-tree, 
Fringed elm, and larch— 
Don’t you think that Maytime’s 
Pleasanter than March? 

Apples in the orchard 
Mellowing one by one; 
Strawberries upturning 
Soft cheeks to the sun; 

Roses faint with sweetness, 
Lillies fail of face, 

Drowsy scents and murmurs 
Haunting every place; 
Lengths of golden sunshine, 
Moonlight bright as day— 
Don’t you think that summer’s 
Pleasanter than May? 




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Roger in the corn-patch 
Whistling negro songs; 

Pussy by the hearth-side 
Romping with the tongs; 

Chestnuts in the ashes 

Bursting through the rind; 

Red leaf and gold leaf 
Rustling down the wind; 

Mother “doin’ peaches” 

All the afternoon— 

Don’t you think that autumn’s 
Pleasanter than June? 

Little fairy snowflakes 
Dancing in the flue; 

Old Mr. Santa Claus, 

What is keeping you? 

Twilight and firelight, 

Shadows come and go; 

Merry chime of sleighbells 
Tinkling through the snow; 

Mother knitting stockings 
(Pussy’s got the ball),— 

Don’t you think that winter’s 
Pleasanter than all? 

—Thomas Bailey Aldrich . 





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65 


Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 

The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 

The moping owl does to the Moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 

Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms that yew-tree’s shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap. 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock’s shrill clarion or the echoing horn, 

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 




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For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. 

Or busy housewife ply her evening care; 

No children run to lisp their sire’s return, 

Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 

How jocund did they drive their team afield! 

How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 

And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, 

Await alike th’ inevitable hour:— 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 

If memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 




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67 


Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 

Can Honor’s voice provoke the silent dust, 

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of Death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway’d, 

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll; 

Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage, 

And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark, unfathom’d caves of ocean bear; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest; 

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country’s blood. 




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Th’ applause of listening senates to command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, 

And read their history in the nation’s eyes. 

Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 

To quench the blushes of ingenious shame, 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame. 

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, 

Their sober wishes never learned to stray; 

Along the cool, sequester’d vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet e’en these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 




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69 


Their names, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d Muse, 
The place of fame and elegy supply: 

And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 

Their pleasing, anxious being e’er resign’d, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 

Nor cast one longing, lingering, look behind? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 

Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 

E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 

E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonor’d dead 
Does in these lines their artless tale relate, 

If, ’chance, by lonely contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,— 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 

“Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 

To meet the Sun upon the upland lawn. 




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There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 

And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove, 

Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, 

Or crazed with care, or cross’d in hopeless love. 

One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill, 

Along the heath, and near his favorite tree: 

Another came! nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: 

The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 

Slow through the churchway-path we saw him borne. 
Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.” 

There scatter’d oft, the earliest of the year, 

By hands unseen, are showers of violets found; 

The redbreast loves to build and warble there, 

And little footsteps lightly print the ground. 





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7i 


The Epitaph 

Here rests his head, upon the lap of Earth, 

A youth to fortune and fame unknown; 

Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth. 

And Melancholy mark’d him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; 

Heaven did as recompense as largely send: 

He gave to misery, all he had, a tear— 

He gain’d from Heaven (’twas all he wish’d) a friend. 

No further seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 

The bosom of his Father and his God. 

—Thomas Gray. 


I Remember, I Remember 

I remember, I remember 
The house where I was born, 

The little window where the sun 
Came peeping in at morn; 





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He never came a wink too soon, 

Nor brought too long a day, 

But now I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away! 

I remember, I remember 
The roses, red and white, 

The vi’lets, and the lily-cups, 

Those flowers made of light! 

The lilacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday,— 

The tree is living yet! 

I remember, I remember 
Where I was used to swing, 

And though the air must rush as fresh 
To swallows on the wing; 

My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now, 

And summer pools could hardly cool 
The fever on my brow! 

I remember, I remember 

The fir trees dark and high; 

I used to think their slender tops 






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73 


Were close against the sky: 

It was a childish ignorance, 

But now ’tis little joy 
To know I’m farther off from heav’n 
Than when I was a boy. 

—Thomas Hood. 


Those Evening Bells 

Those evening bells! those evening bells! 
How many a tale their music tells, 

Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 
When last I heard their soothing chime! 

Those joyous hours are passed away; 
And many a heart that then was gay, 
Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
And hears no more those evening bells. 





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And so ’twill be when I am gone— 

That tuneful peal will still ring on; 
While other bards shall walk these dells, 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. 

—Thomas Moore. 


I Love Little Pussy 

I love little pussy. 

Her coat is so warm, 

And if I don’t hurt her, 

She’ll do me no harm. 

So I’ll not pull her tail, 

Or drive her away, 

But pussy and I 

Very gently will play. 

She will sit by my side, 

And I’ll give her her food, 

And she’ll like me because 
I am gentle and good. 

— Anonymous. 






THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


75 


Under the Greenwood Tree 

Under the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me, 

And tune his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird’s throat, 

Come hither, come hither, come hither; 
Here shall he see 
No enemy, 

But winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun, 

And loves to lie i’ the sun, 

Seeking the food he eats 
And pleased with what he gets, 

Come hither, come hither, come hither! 
Here shall he see 
No enemy, 

But winter and rough weather. 

—William Shakespeare. 




76 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Twinkle, Twinkle 

Twinkle, twinkle little star, 

How I wonder what you are; 

Up above the world so high, 

Like a diamond in the sky. 

When the blazing sun is gone, 

When he nothing shines upon, 

Then you show your little light, 
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. 

Then the traveller in the dark, 

Thanks you for your tiny spark; 

He could not tell which way to go 
If you did not twinkle so. 

In the dark blue sky you keep, 

And often through my curtains peep; 
For you never shut your eye 
Till the sun is in the sky. 

As your bright and tiny spark 
Lights the traveller in the dark, 
Though I know not what you are, 
Twinkle, twinkle little star. 

—Jane Taylor. 






THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


77 


The Chambered Nautilus 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 

Sails the unshadowed main,— 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare, 

Where the cold sea maids rise to sun their streaming 
hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl! 

And every chambered cell, 

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 

As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed,— 

Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 
That spread his lustrous coil; 

Still, as the spiral grew, 

He left the past year’s dwelling for the new, 

Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 





78 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Built up its idle door, 

Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no 
more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 
Child of the wandering sea, 

Cast from her lap, forlorn! 

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! 

While on mine ear it rings, 

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that 
sings— 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past! 

Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free, 

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea! 

—Oliver IV end ell Holmes. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


79 


The Village Blacksmith 

Under a spreading chestnut tree 
The village smithy stands; 

The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands, 

And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long; 

His face is like the tan; 

His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whatever he can, 

And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 
Look in at the open door; 

They love to see the flaming forge, 





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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


And hear the bellows roar, 

And catch the burning sparks that fly 
Like chaff from a threshing floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys; 

He hears the parson pray and preach, 
He hears his daughter’s voice 

Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice 
Singing in Paradise! 

He needs must think of her once more, 
How in the grave she lies; 

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 
A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling—-rejoicing—sorrowing, 

Onward through life he goes; 

Each morning sees some task begun, 
Each evening sees it close; 

Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night’s repose. 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought. 

—Henry IV. Longfellow. 


Escape at Bedtime 

The lights from the parlor and kitchen shone out 
Through the blinds and the windows and bars; 

And high overhead and all moving about, 

There were thousands of millions of stars. 

There ne’er were such thousands of leaves on a tree, 
Nor of people in church or the Park, 

As the crowds of the stars that looked down upon me, 
And that glittered and winked in the dark. 





82 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


The Dog, and the Plow, and the Hunter, and all, 

And the star of the Sailor, and Mars, 

These shone in the sky, and the pail by the wall 
Would be half full of water and stars. 

They saw me at last, and they chased me with cries, 
And they soon had me packed into bed; 

But the glory kept shining, and bright in my eyes, 

And the stars going round in my head. 

—Robert Louis Stevenson . 


Hearts, Like Doors 

Hearts, like doors, will ope with ease 
To very, very little keys, 

And don’t forget that two of these 
Are “I thank you” and “If you please.” 

— Anonymous . 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


83 


A Boy’s Song 

Where the pools are bright and deep, 
Where the gray trout lies asleep, 

Up the river and o’er the lea, 

That’s the way for Billy and me. 

Where the blackbird sings the latest, 
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, 
Where the nestlings chirp and flee, 
That’s the way for Billy and me. 

Where the mowers mow the cleanest, 
Where the hay lies thick and greenest, 
There to trace the homeward bee, 
That’s the way for Billy and me. 

Where the hazel bank is steepest, 

Where the shadow falls the deepest, 
Where the clustering nuts fall free, 
That’s the way for Billy and me. 

Why the boys should drive away 
Little sweet maidens from the play, 

Or love to banter and fight so well, 
That’s the thing I never could tell. 




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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


But this I know, I love to play, 

Through the meadow, among the hay; 

Up the water and o’er the lea, 

That’s the way for Billy and me. 

—James Hogg. 


For A’ That, and A’ That 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a’ that? 

The coward slave, we pass him by, 

And dare be poor for a’ that! 

For a’ that, and a’ that! 

Our toils obscure, and a’ that; 

The rank is but the guinea stamp; 

The man’s the gowd for a’ that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine, 
Wear hodden-grey, and a’ that; 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
A man’s a man, for a’ that. 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


85 


For a’ that, and a’ that. 

Their tinsel shows, and a’ that, 

The honest man, tho’ ne’er sae poor, 

Is king o’ men for a’ that. 

You see yon birkie, ca’d a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares and a’ that; 

Though hundreds worship at his word, 
He’s but a coof for a’ that; 

For a’ that, and a’ that, 

His riband, star and a’ that, 

The man of independent mind 
He looks and laughs at a’ that. 

A king can make a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke and a’ that; 

But an honest man’s aboon his might, 
Guid faith, he maunna fa’ that! 

For a’ that, and a’ that, 

Their dignities, and a’ that, 

The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ worth, 
Are higher ranks than a’ that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a’ that, 

That sense and worth, o’er a the earth, 




86 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


May bear the gree, and a’ that; 

For a’ that, and a’ that, 

It’s coming yet, for a’ that; 

That man to man, the warld o’er, 

Shall brothers be for a’ that. 

—Robert Burns. 


The Deserted Village 

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, 

Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain; 
Where smiling spring its earliest visits paid, 

And parting summer’s lingering bloom delayed; 

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please! 
How often have I loitered o’er thy green, 

Where humble happiness endeared each scene; 

How often have I paused on every charm— 

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


87 


The decent church that topped the neighboring hill, 
The hawthorn-bush, with seats beneath the shade, 

For talking age and whispering lovers made! 

How often have I blessed the coming day. 

When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 

And all the village train, from labour free, 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree: 
While many a pastime, circled in the shade, 

The young contended as the old surveyed; 

And many a gambol frolicked o’er the ground, 

The sleights of art and feats of strength went round; 
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired; 

The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 

By holding out to tire each other down; 

The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, 

While secret laughter titter’d round the place; 

The bashful virgin’s sidelong looks of love, 

The matron’s glance that would those looks reprove. 
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, 
With sweet succession, taught e’en toil to please; 

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, 
These were thy charms—but all these charms are fled. 

—Oliver Goldsmith. 




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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


The Three Fishers 

Three fishers went sailing out into the west— 

Out into the west as the sun went down; 

Each thought of the woman who loved him the best, 
And the children stood watching them out of the 
town; 

For men must work, and women must weep; 

And there’s little to earn, and many to keep, 

Though the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, 

And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; 

And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the 
shower, 

And the rack it came rolling, up, ragged and brown. 
But men must work, and women must weep, 

Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 

And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 
In the morning gleam as the tide went down, 

And the women are watching and wringing their 
hands, 

For those who will never come back to the town; 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


89 


For men must work and women must weep— 
And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep— 
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 

—Charles Kingsley. 


The Inchcape Rock 

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, 

The ship was as still as she could be, 

Her sails from heaven received no motion, 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either sign or sound of their shock 
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock; 

So little they rose, so little they fell, 

They did not move the Inchcape Bell. 

The good old Abbot of Aberbrothok 
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock; 
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, 
And over the waves its warning rung. 





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When the Rock was hid by the surges’ swell, 
The mariners heard the warning bell; 

And then they knew the perilous Rock, 

And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothok. 

The sun in heaven was shining gay, 

All things were joyful on that day; 

The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round 
And there was joyance in their sound. 

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen 
A darker speck on the ocean green; 

Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck 
And he fixed his eye on a darker speck. 

He felt the cheering power of spring, 

It made him whistle, it made him sing; 

His heart was mirthful to excess, 

But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the Inchcape float; 

Quoth he, “My men, put out the boat, 

And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 

And I’ll plague the priest of Aberbrothok.” 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


9i 


The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, 

And to the Inchcape Rock they go; 

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 

And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float. 

Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound, 

The bubbles rose and burst around; 

Quoth Sir Ralph, “The next who comes to the Rock, 
Won’t bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.” 

Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away, 

He scoured the seas for many a day; 

And now grown rich with plundered store, 

He steers his course for Scotland’s shore. 

So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky 
They cannot see the sun on high; 

The wind hath blown a gale all day, 

At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the Rover takes his stand, 

So dark it is they see no land. 

Quoth Sir Ralph, “It will be lighter soon, 

For there is the dawn of the rising moon.” 





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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


“Canst hear,” said one, “the breakers roar? 

For methinks we should be near the shore; 

Now where we are I cannot tell, 

But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.” 

They hear no sound, the swell is strong; 
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, 
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock; 
Cried they, “It is the Inchcape Rock!” 

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, 

He cursed himself in his despair; 

The waves rush in on every side, 

The ship is sinking beneath tide. 

But even in his dying fear 

One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, 

A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell 
The fiends below were ringing his knell. 

—Robert Southey. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


93 


Big and Little Things 

1 cannot do the big things 
That I should like to do, 

To make the earth for ever fair, 

The sky for ever blue. 

But I can do the small things 
That help to make it sweet; 

Though clouds arise and fill the skies, 
And tempests beat. 

I cannot stay the rain-drops 
That tumble from the skies; 

But I can wipe the tears away 
From baby’s pretty eyes. 

I cannot make the sun shine, 

Or warm the winter bleak; 

But I can make the summer come 
On sister’s rosy cheek. 

I cannot stay the storm clouds, 

Or drive them from their place; 

But I can clear the clouds away 
From brother’s troubled face. 





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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


I cannot make the corn grow, 

Or work upon the land; 

But I can put new strength and will 
In father’s busy hand. 

I cannot stay the east wind, 

Or thaw its icy smart; 

But I can keep a corner warm 
In mother’s loving heart. 

I cannot do the big things 
That I should like to do, 

To make the earth for ever fair, 

The sky for ever blue. 

But I can do the small things 
That help to make it sweet; 

Though clouds arise and fill the skies 
And tempests beat. 


—Alfred H. Miles. 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


95 


How Doth the Little Busy Bee 

How doth the little busy bee 
Improve each shining hour, 

And gather honey all the day 
From every opening flower! 

How skillfully she builds her cell! 
How neat she spreads the wax! 

And labors hard to store it well 
With the sweet food she makes. 

In works of labor or of skill, 

I would be busy too; 

For Satan finds some mischief still 
For idle hands to do. 

In books, or work, or healthful play, 

Let my first years be past, 

That I may give for every day 
Some good account at last. 

—Isaac Watts. 




96 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


A Song of a Doll 

1 once had a sweet little doll, dears, 

The prettiest doll in the world; 

Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears, 
And her hair was so charmingly curled : 

But I lost my poor little doll, dears, 

As I played on the heath one day, 

And I cried for her more than a week, dears, 
But I never could find where she lay. 

1 found my poor little doll, dears, 

As I played on the heath one day: 

Folks say she is terribly changed, dears, 

For her paint is all washed away, 

And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears, 
And her hair not the least bit curled; 

Yet for old sake’s sake she is still, dears, 

The prettiest doll in the world. 

—Charles Kingsley. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


97 


Ajax 

Old Ajax was a faithful dog, 

Of the best and bravest sort; 

And we made a friend and pet of him, 
And called him “Jax” for short. 

He served us well for many a year, 

But at last there came a day 

When, a superannuated dog, 

In the sun he idly lay. 

And though as kindly as before 
He still was housed and fed, 

We brought a younger, sprightlier dog 
For service in his stead. 

Poor “Jax” he knew and felt it all, 

As well as you or I: 

He laid his head on his trembling paws, 
And his whine was like a cry. 

And then he rose: he would not stay 
Near where the intruder stayed; 

He took the other side of the house, 
Though that was in the shade. 




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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


And he never answered when we called, 
He would not touch his bone; 

’Twas more than he could bear to have 
A rival near his throne. 

We tried to soothe his wounded pride 
By every kindly art; 

But if ever creature did, poor “Jax” 

Died of a broken heart. 

Alas! he would not learn the truth, 

He was not still a pup; 

That every dog must have his day, 

And then must give it up! 

—Phoebe Cary . 


Little Things 

Little drops of water, 
Little grains of sand, 
Make the mighty ocean 
And the pleasant land 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


99 


Thus the little minutes, 

Humble though they be, 

Make the mighty ages 
Of eternity. 

Thus our little errors 
Lead the soul away 
From the path of virtue, 

Far in sin to stray. 

Little deeds of kindness, 

Little words of love, 

Make our earth ’an Eden, 

Like the heaven above. 

Little seeds of mercy, 

Sown by youthful hands, 

Grow to bless the nations 
Far in* heathen lands. 

—Ebenezer Cobham Brewer. 





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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Dirty Jim 

There was one little Jim, 

’Tis reported of him, 

And must be to his lasting disgrace, 
That he never was seen 
With hands at all clean, 

Nor yet ever clean was his face, 

His friends were much hurt 
To see so much dirt, 

And often they made him quite clean; 
But all was in vain, 

He was dirty again, 

And not at all fit to be seen. 

Then to wash he was sent, 

He reluctantly went 

With water to splash himself o’er; 

But he seldom was seen 
To have washed himself clean, 

And often look’d worse than before. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


IOI 


The idle and bad 
Like this little lad, 

May be dirty, and black, to be sure; 
But good boys are seen 
To be decent and clean, 

Although they are ever so poor. 

—Jane Taylor. 


Wishing 

i Ring-ting! I wish I were a primrose, 

A bright yellow primrose blowing in the spring! 
The stooping boughs above me, 

The wandering bee to love me, 

The fern and moss to keep across, 

And the elm-tree for our king! 

Nay—nay! I wish I were an elm-tree, 

A great lofty elm-tree, with green leaves gay! 

The winds would set them dancing, 

The sun and moonshine glance in, 

The birds would house among the boughs, 

And sweetly sing! 





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THE EN TER TA IN MEN T SPEAKER 


O—no! I wish I were a robin, 

A robin or a little wren, everywhere to go; 
Through forest, field or garden, 

And ask no leave or pardon, 

Till winter comes with icy thumbs 
To ruffle up our wing. 

Well—tell! Where should I fly to, 

Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell? 
Before a day was over, 

Home comes the rover, 

For mother’s kiss—sweeter this 
Than any other thing! 

—William Allingham. 


The Kitten at Play 

See the kitten on the wall, 

Sporting with the leaves that fall, 
Withered leaves; one, two, and three 
Falling from the elder tree, 
Through the calm and frosty air 
Of the morning bright and fair. 





THE EN TER TAIN MEN T SPEAKER 


103 


See the kitten, how she starts, 
Crouches, stretches, paws and darts; 
With a tiger leap half way 
Now she meets her coming prey. 

Lets it go as fast and then 
Has it in her power again. 

Now she works with three and four, 
Like an Indian conjurer; 

Quick as he in feats of art, 

Gracefully she plays her part; 

Yet were gazing thousands there, 

What would little Tabby care? 

— Anonymous. 


Suppose 

Suppose, my little lady, 

Your doll should break her head, 
Could you make it whole by crying 
Till your eyes and nose are red? 






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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


And wouldn’t it be pleasanter 
To treat it as a joke, 

And say you’re glad “ ’Twas Dolly’s, 
And not your head that broke?” 

Suppose you’re dressed for walking, 
And the rain comes pouring down, 
Will it clear off any sooner 
Because you scold and frown? 

And wouldn’t it be nicer 
For you to smile than pout, 

And so make sunshine in the house 
When there is none without? 

Suppose your task, my little man, 

Is very hard to get, 

Will it make it any easier 
For you to sit and fret? 

And wouldn’t it be wiser, 

Than waiting like a dunce, 

To go to work in earnest, 

And learn the thing at once? 

Suppose that some boys have a horse, 
And some a coach and pair, 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


105 


Will it tire you less while walking 
To say “It isn’t fair?” 

And wouldn’t it be nobler 
To keep your temper sweet, 

And in your heart be thankful 
You can walk upon your feet? 

And suppose the world don’t please you, 
Nor the way some people do, 

Do you think the whole creation 
Will be altered just for you? 

And isn’t it, my boy or girl, 

The wisest, bravest plan, 

Whatever comes, or doesn’t come, 

To do the best you can? 

—Phoebe Cary. 


The Bridge 

I stood on the bridge at midnight, 

As the clock was striking the hour, 
And the moon rose o’er the city 
Behind the dark church tower. 





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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


I saw her bright reflection 
In the waters under me, 

Like a golden goblet falling 
And sinking into the sea. 

And far in the hazy distance 
Of that lovely night in June, 

The blaze of the flaming furnace 
Gleamed redder round the moon. 

Among the long, black rafters 
The wavering shadows lay, 

And the current that came from the ocean 
Seemed to lift and bear them away! 

As, sweeping and eddying through them, 

Rose the belated tide, 

And, streaming into the moonlight, 

The seaweed floated wide. 

And like those waters rushing 
Among the wooden piers, 

A flood of thoughts came o’er me 
That filled my eyes with tears. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


107 


How often, oh, how often, 

In the days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at midnight 
And gazed on that wave and sky. 

How often, oh, how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 

Would bear me away on its bosom 
O’er the ocean wild and wide! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 

And my life was full of care, 

And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea; 

And only the sorrow of others 
Throws its shadows over me. 

Yet, whenever I cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers, 

Like the odor of brine from the ocean 
Comes the thoughts of other years. 




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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


And I think how many thousands 
Of care-encumbered men, 

Each bearing his burden of sorrow, 

Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 
Still passing to and fro, 

The young heart hot and restless, 

And the old, subdued and slow! 

And forever and forever, 

As long as the river flows, 

As long as the heart has passions, 

As long as life has woes: 

The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear, 

As the symbol of love in heaven, 

And its wavering image here. 

—Henry W. Longfellow. 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


109 


Abou Ben Adhem 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) 

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 

And saw within the moonlight in his room, 

Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, 

An angel writing in a book of gold. 

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold; 

And to the presence in the room he said, 

“What writest thou?” The vision raised its head, 
And, with a look made of all sweet accord, 

Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.” 

“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,” 
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, 

But cheerily still; and said, “I pray thee, then, 

Write me as one that loves his fellow men.” 

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 
It came again, with a great wakening light, 

And showed the names whom love of God had blessed; 
And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest. 

—Leigh Hunt. 




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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Old Ironsides 

(September 14, 1830) 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! 

Long has it waved on high, 

And many an eye has danced to see 
That banner in the sky; 

Beneath it rung the battle shout, 

And burst the cannon’s roar;— 

The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more. 

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood, 
Where knelt the vanquished foe, 

When winds were hurrying o’er the flood, 
And waves were white below, 

No more shall feel the victor’s tread, 

Or know the conquered knee;— 

The harpies of the shore shall pluck 
The eagle of the sea! 

Oh, better that her shattered hulk 
Should sink beneath the wave; 

Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave; 

Nail to the mast her holy flag, 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


hi 


Set every threadbare sail, 

And give her to the god of storms, 

The lightning and the gale! 

—Oliver Wendcll Holmes. 


Charge of the Light Brigade 

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 

Into the valley of death 
Rode the six hundred. 

“Forward, the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns!” he said. 

Into the valley of death, 

Rode the six hundred. 

“Forward, the Light Brigade!” 

Was there a man dismayed? 

Not though the soldiers knew 
Some one had blundered: 





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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Theirs not to make reply, 

Theirs not to reason why, 

Theirs but to do and die; 

Into the valley of death, 

Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 

Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon in front of them, 

Volleyed and thundered: 

Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well; 

Into the jaws of death, 

Into the mouth of hell, 

Rode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare, 
Flashed as they turned in air, 
Sab’ring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 
All the world wondered: 

Plunged in the battery smoke, 

Right through the line they broke, 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


113 


Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the sabre-stroke, 
Shattered and sundered. 

Then they rode back—but not, 
Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 

Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon behind them, 

Volleyed and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 

They that had fought so well, 
Came through the jaws of death, 
Back from the mouth of hell, 

All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade? 

O, the wild charge they made! 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred! 


—Alfred Tennyson. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


114 


Warren’s Address at Bunker Hill 

(June 16-17, 1775 ) 

Stand! the ground’s your own, my braves! 
Will ye give it up to slaves? 

Will ye look for greener graves? 

Hope ye mercy still? 

What’s the mercy despots feel? 

Hear it in that battle-peal! 

Read it on yon bristling steel! 

Ask it,—ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire? 

Will ye to your homes retire? 

Look behind you!—They’re afire! 

And, before you, see 
Who have done it! From the vale 
On they come—and will ye quail? 
Leaden rain and iron hail 
Let their welcome be! 

In the God of battles trust! 

Die we may,—and die we must: 

But, oh, where can dust to dust 
Be consigned so well, 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


115 


As where heaven its dews shall shed 
On the martyred patriot’s bed, 

And the rocks shall raise their head, 

Of his deeds to tell? 

—John Pierpont. 


Peace 

Were half the power that fills the world with terror, 
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, 
Given to redeem the human mind from error, 

There were no need of arsenal or forts. 

The warrior’s name would be a name abhorred; 

And every nation that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 
Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain! 

— Anonymous. 






THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


116 


George Washington 

When great and good George Washington 
Was a little boy like me, 

He took his little hatchet 

And chopped down a cherry tree. 

And when his papa called him, 

He then began to cry, 

“I did it, oh, I did it, 

I cannot tell a lie.” 

His papa did not scold at all, 

But said, “You noble youth, 

I’d gladly lose ten cherry trees 
And have you tell the truth.” 

But I myself am not quite clear; 

For, if I took my hatchet 
And chopped my papa’s cherry tree, 

Oh, wouldn’t I just catch it! 


— Anonymous. 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


7 


The Minstrel Boy 

The Minstrel boy to the war is gone, 

In the ranks of death you’ll find him; 

His father’s sword he has girded on, 

And his wild harp slung behind him.— 

“Land of song!” said the warrior-bard, 
“Though all the world betrays thee, 

One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, 
One faithful harp shall praise thee!” 

The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman’s chain 
Could not bring his proud soul under; 

The harp he loved ne’er spoke again, 

For he tore its chords asunder; 

And said, “No chains shall sully thee, 

Thou soul of love, and bravery! 

Thy songs were made for the brave and free, 
They shall never sound in slavery!” 

—Thomas Moore . 




ii8 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 

The breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rock-bound coast, 

And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed. 

And the heavy night hung dark 
The hills and waters o’er, 

When a band of exiles moored their bark 
On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came, 

Not with the roll of stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame; 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear,— 

They shook the depths of the desert’s gloom 
With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard and the sea! 

And the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang 
To the anthems of the free! 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


19 


The ocean-eagle soared 

From his nest by the white waves’ foam, 

And the rocking pines of the forest roared,— 

This was their welcome home! 

There were men with hoary hair 
Amidst that pilgrim-band; 

Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood’s land? 

There was woman’s fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love’s truth; 

There was manhood’s brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar? 

Bright jewels of the mine? 

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? 

They sought a faith’s pure shrine! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod! 

They have left unstained what there they found,— 
Freedom to worship God! 

—Felicia Dorothea Hemans . 





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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


My Old Kentucky Home 

The sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home, 

’Tis summer, the darkies are gay; 

The corntop’s ripe and the meadow’s in the bloom, 
While the birds make music all the day; 

The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, 

All merry, all happy, all bright; 

By’n by hard times comes a-knockin’ at the door,— 
Then, my old Kentucky home, good-night! 

Weep no more, my lady; Oh, weep no more to-day! 

We’ll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, 
For our old Kentucky home far away! 

They hunt no more the ’possum and the coon, 

On the meadow, the hill and the shore; 

They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, 

On the bench by the old cabin door; 

The day goes by, like a shadow o’er the heart, 

With sorrow where all was delight; 

The time has come when the darkeys have to part, 
Then, my old Kentucky home, good-night! 

Weep no more, my lady; Oh, weep no more to-day! 

We’ll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, 

For our old Kentucky home far away! 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


12 


The head must bow, and the back will have to bend 
Wherever the darkey may go; 

A few more days and the troubles all will end, 

In the field where the sugar-canes grow. 

A few more days to tote the weary load, 

No matter, it will never be light; 

A few more days till we totter on the road, 

Then, my old Kentucky home, good-night! 

Weep no more, my lady; Oh, weep no more to-day! 

We’ll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, 

For our old Kentucky home far away! 

—Stephen Collins Foster . 


Pocahontas 

Wearied arm and broken sword 
Wage in vain the desperate fight; 
Round him press a countless horde, 
He is but a single knight. 

Hark, a cry of triumph shrill 

Through the wilderness resounds, 
As with twenty bleeding wounds 
Sinks the warrior fighting still. 





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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Now they heap the fatal pyre, 

And the torch of death they light; 

Ah! ’tis hard to die of fire! 

Who will shield the captive knight? 
Round the stake with fiendish cry 
Wheel and dance the savage crowd, 
Cold the victim’s mien and proud, 

And his breast is bared to die. 

Who will shield the fearless heart? 

Who avert the murderous blade? 

From the throng, with sudden start, 

See there springs an Indian maid. 
Quick she stands before the knight: 
“Loose the chain, unbind the ring; 

I am daughter of the king, 

And I claim the Indian right!” 

Dauntlessly aside she flings 
Lifted axe and thirsty knife; 

Fondly to his heart she clings, 

And her bosom guards his life! 

In the wood of Powhattan, 

Still ’tis told by Indian fires, 

How a daughter of their sires 
Saved the captive Englishman. 

—William Makepeace Thackeray. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


123 


Casabianca 

The boy stood on the burning deck, 
Whence all but him had fled; 

The flame that lit the battle’s wreck, 
Shone round him o’er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm; 

A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though childlike form. 

The flames rolled on—he would not go 
Without his father’s word; 

That father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud—“Say, father, say 
If yet my task be done!” 

He knew not that the chieftain lay 
Unconscious of his son. 

“Speak, father!” once again he cried, 
“If I may yet be gone!” 

And but the booming shots replied, 
And fast the flames rolled on. 




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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair; 

And looked from that lone post of death, 

In still, yet brave despair; 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

“My father! must I stay?” 

While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud, 
The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, 

They caught the flag on high, 

And streamed above the gallant child, 

Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound— 

The boy—oh! where was he? 

Ask of the winds that far around 
With fragments strewed the sea, 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 

That well had borne their part; 

But the noblest thing that perished there 
Was that young and faithful heart. 

—Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 




THE EN T ER TAIN MEN T SPEAKER 


125 


The Leak in the Dike 

The good dame looked from her cottage 
At the close of the pleasant day, 

And cheerily called to her little son 
Outside the door at play: 

“Come Peter, come! I want you to go, 
While there is yet light to see, 

To the hut of the blind old man who lives 
Across the dike, for me; 

And take these cakes I made for him— 
They are hot and smoking yet; 

You have time enough to go and come 
Before the sun is set.” 

Then the good wife turned to her labor, 
Humming a simple song, 

And thought of her husband, working hard 
At the sluices all day long; 

And set the turf a-blazing, 

And brought the coarse, black bread, 

That he might find a fire at night, 

And see the table spread. 




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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


And Peter left the brother 

With whom all day he had played, 

And the sister who had watched their sports 
In the willow’s tender shade; 

And told them they’d see him back before 
They saw a star in sight— 

Though he wouldn’t be afraid to go 
In the very darkest night! 

For he was a brave, bright fellow, 

With eye and conscience clear; 

He could do whatever a boy might do, 

And he had not learned to fear. 

Why, he wouldn’t have robbed a bird’s nest. 
Nor brought a stork to harm, 

Though never a law in Holland 
Had stood to stay his arm! 

And now, with his face all glowing, 

And eyes as bright as the day 
With the thoughts of his pleasant errand, 

He trudged along the way; 

And soon his joyous prattle 
Made glad a lonesome place— 

Alas! if only the blind old man 
Could have seen that happy face! 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


127 


Yet he somehow caught the brightness 
Which his voice and presence lent; 

And he felt the sunshine come and go 
As Peter came and went. 

And now, as the day was sinking, 

And the winds b6gan to rise, 

The mother looked from her door again, 
Shading her anxious eyes, 

And saw the shadows deepen, 

And birds to their homes come back, 

But never a sign of Peter 
Along the level track. 

But she said, “He will come at morning, 

So I need not fret or grieve— 

Though it isn’t like my boy at all 
To stay without my leave.” 

But where was the child delaying? 

On the homeward way was he, 

And across the dike while the sun was up 
An hour above the sea. 

He was stooping now to gather flowers; 

Now listening to the sound, 

As the angry waters dashed themselves 
Against their narrow bound. 




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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


“Ah! well for us,” said Peter, 

“That the gates are good and strong, 

And my father tends them carefully, 

Or they would not hold you long! 

You’re a wicked sea,” said Peter; 

“I know why you fret and chafe; 

You would like to spoil our lands and homes; 
But our sluices keep you safe!” 

But hark! through the noise of waters 
Comes a low, clear, trickling sound; 

As the child’s face pales with terror, 

As his blossoms drop to the ground. 

He is up the bank in a moment, 

And, stealing through the sand, 

He sees a stream not yet so large 
As his slender, childish hand. 

’Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy, 
Unused to fearful scenes; 

But, young as he is, he has learned to know 
The dreadful thing that means. 

A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart 
Grows faint that cry to hear, 

And the bravest man in all the land 
Turns white with mortal fear. 




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129 


For he knows the smallest leak may grow 
To a flood in a single night; 

And he knows the strength of the cruel sea 
When loosed in its angry might. 

And the boy! He has seen the danger, 
And, shouting a wild alarm, 

He forces back the weight of the sea 
With the strength of his single arm! 

He listens for the joyful sound 
Of a footstep passing nigh; 

And lays his ear to the ground, to catch 
The answer to his cry,— 

And he hears the rough winds blowing, 
And the waters rise and fall, 

But never an answer comes to him 
Save the echo of his call. 

He sees no hope, no succor, 

His feeble voice is lost; 

Yet what shall he do but watch and wait, 
Though he perish at his post! 

So, faintly calling and crying 
Till the sun is under the sea; 





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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Crying and moaning till the stars 
Come out for company; 

He thinks of his brother and sister, 

Asleep in their safe, warm bed; 

He thinks of dear father and mother; 

Of himself as dying, and dead; 

And of how, when the night is over, 

They must come and find him at last; 

But he never thinks he can leave the place 
Where duty holds him fast. 

The good dame in the cottage 
Is up and astir with the light, 

For the thought of her little Peter 
Has been with her all the night. 

And now she watches the pathway, 

As yester-eve she had done, 

But what does she see so strange and black 
Against the rising sun? 

Her neighbors are bearing between them 
Something straight to her door; 

Her child is coming home, but not 
As he ever came before! 

“He is dead!” she cries; “my darling!” 
And the startled father hears, 

And comes and looks the way she looks, 





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131 


And fears the thing she fears; 

Till a glad shout from the bearers 
Thrills the stricken man and wife— 

“Give thanks, for your son has saved our land, 
And God has saved his life!” 

So, there in the morning sunshine 
They knelt about the boy; 

And every head was bared and bent 
In tearful, reverent joy. 

’Tis many a year since then; but still, 

When the sea roars like a flood, 

Their boys are taught what a boy can do 
Who is brave and true and good. 

For every man in that country 
Takes his son by the hand, 

And tells him of little Peter, 

Whose courage saved the land. 

They have many a valiant hero, 

Remembered through the years; 

But never one whose name so oft 
Is named with loving tears. 

And his deed shall be sung by the cradle, 




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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


And told to the child on the knee, 

So long as the dikes in Holland 
Divide the land from the sea! 

—Phoebe Cary. 


“Curfew Must Not Ring To-night” 

England’s sun was slowly setting o’er the hills so far 
away, 

Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad 
day; 

And the last rays kiss’d the forehead of a man and 
maiden fair, 

He with step so slow and weakened, she with sunny 
floating hair; 

He with sad bowed head, and thoughtful, she with lips 
so cold and white, 

Struggling to keep back the murmur, “Curfew must not 
ring to-night.” 





THE ENTER TAIN MEN T SPEAKER 


33 


Sexton,’ Bessie’s white lips faltered, pointing to the 
prison old, 

With its walls so dark and gloomy—walls so dark and 
damp, and cold— 

I ve a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to 
die, 

At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is 
nigh. 

Cromwell will not come till sunset,” and her face grew 
strangely white, 

As she spoke in husky whispers, “Curfew must not 
ring to-night.” 

“Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton—every word pierced 
her young heart 

Like a thousand gleaming arrows—like a deadly 
poisoned dart; 

“Long, long years I’ve rung the Curfew from the 
gloomy shadowed tower; 

Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight 
hour; 

I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right, 

Now I’m old, I will not miss it; girl, the Curfew rings 
to-night!” 




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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white 
her thoughtful brow, 

And within her heart’s deep center Bessie made a 
solemn vow; 

She had listened while the judges read, without a tear 
or sigh, 

“At the ringing of the Curfew—Basil Underwood must 
die,” 

And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew 
large and bright— 

One low murmur, scarcely spoken—“Curfew must not 
ring to-night.” 

She with light step bounded forward, sprang within 
the old church door, 

Left the old man coming slowly, paths he’d trod so oft 
before; 

Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek 
and brow aglow, 

Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung 
to and fro; 

Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark without one 
ray of light, 

Upward still her pale lips saying: “Curfew shall not 
ring to-night.” 






THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


35 


She has reached the topmost ladder, o’er her hangs the 
great dark bell, 

And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway 
down to hell; 

See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, ’tis the hour of 
Curfew now— 

And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her 
breath and paled her brow. 

Shall she let it ring? No, never! her eyes flash with 
sudden light, 

As she springs and grasps it firmly—“Curfew shall not 
ring to-night!” 

Out she swung, far out the city seemed a tiny speck 
below; 

There ’twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell 
swung to and fro ; 

And the half-deaf Sexton ringing (years he had not 
heard the bell), 

And he thought the twilight Curfew rang young Basil’s 
funeral knell; 

Still the maiden clinging firmly, cheek and brow so 
pale and white, 

Still her frightened heart’s wild beating—“Curfew 
shall not ring to-night.” 




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THE EN TER TAINMENT SPEAKER 


It was o’er—the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden 
stepped once more 

Firmly on the damp old ladder, where for hundred 
years before 

Human foot had not been planted; and what she this 
night had done 

Should be told in long years after—as the rays of set¬ 
ting sun 

Light the sky with mellow beauty, aged sires with 
heads of white 

Tell their children why the curfew did not ring that 
one sad night. 

O’er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie saw him, 
and her brow, 

Lately white with sickening terror, glows with sudden 
beauty now. 

At his feet she told her story, showed her hands all 
bruised and torn; 

And her sweet young face so haggard, with a look so 
sad and worn, 

Touched his heart with sudden pity—lit his eyes with 
misty light; 

“Go, your lover lives!” cried Cromwell; “Curfew 
shall not ring to-night.” 

—Rose Hartwick Thorpe. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


i37 


Words on Welcome 

Kind friends and dear parents, we welcome you here 
To our nice pleasant schoolroom, and teacher so dear; 
We wish but to show how much we have learned, 

And how to our lessons our hearts have been turned. 

But hope you’ll remember we all are quite young, 

And when we have spoken, recited and sung, 

You will pardon our blunders, which, as all are aware, 
May even extend to the President’s chair. 

Our life is a schooltime, and till that shall end, 

With our Father in heaven for teacher and friend, 

Oh, let us perform well each task that is given, 

Till our time of probation is ended in heaven. 

— Anonymous . 





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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


“Quite Like a Stocking” 

Just as the moon was fading 
Amid her misty rings, 

And every stocking was stuffed 
With childhood’s precious things, 
Old Kris Kringle looked round 
And saw, on an elm tree bough, 

High hung, an oriole’s nest, 

Lonely and empty now. 

“Quite like a stocking,” he laughed, 
“Hung up there on a tree! 

I didn’t suppose the birds 

Expected a present from me.” 

Then old Kris Kringle, who loves 
A joke as well as the best. 

Dropped a handful of snowflakes into 
The oriole’s empty nest. 

—Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 






THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


i39 


God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen 

God rest ye, merry gentlemen; let nothing you dismay, 

For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas 
Day. 

The dawn rose red o’er Bethlehem, the stars shone 
through the gray, 

When Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas 
Day. 

God rest ye, little children; let nothing you affright, 

For Jesus Christ, your Saviour, was born this happy 
night; 

Along the hills of Galilee the white flocks sleeping lay, 

When Christ, the child of Nazareth, was born on 
Christmas Day. 

God rest ye, all good Christians; upon this blessed 
morn 

The Lord of all good Christians was of a woman born. 

Now all your sorrows he doth heal, your sins he takes 
away; 

For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas 
Day. 


—Dinah Maria Mulock. 




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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


The Holly Tree 

O Reader! hast thou ever stood to see 
The holly tree? 

The eye that contemplates it well, perceives 
Its glossy leaves, 

Ordered by an intelligence so wise 

As might confound the atheist’s sophistries. 

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 
Wrinkled and keen; 

No grazing cattle, through their prickly round, 
Can reach to wound; 

But as they grow where nothing is to fear, 

Smooth and unarm’d the pointless leaves appear. 

I love to view these things with curious eyes, 

And moralize; 

And in this wisdom of the holly-tree 
Can emblems see 

Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme; 

One which may profit in the after-time. 

Thus, though abroad, perchance I might appear 
Harsh and austere; 






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141 


To those who on my leisure would intrude, 
Reserved and rude; 

Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be, 

Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, 
Some harshness show, 

All vain asperities I, day by day, 

Would wear away, 

Till the smooth temper of my age should be 

Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 

And as, when all the summer trees are seen 
So bright and green, 

The holly leaves their fadeless hues display 
Less bright than they; 

But when the bare and wintry woods we see, 

What then so cheerful as the holly tree? 

So, serious should my youth appear among 
The thoughtless throng; 

So would I seem amid the young and gay, 
More grave than they; 

That in my age as cheerful I might be 

As the green winter of the holly tree. 

—Robert Southey. 





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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Christmas Greetings 

(From a Fairy to a Child) 

Lady dear, if fairies may 
For a moment lay aside 

Cunning tricks and elfish play, 

’Tis at happy Christmastide. 

We have heard the children say— 
Gentle children, whom we love— 

Long ago, on Christmas Day, 

Came a message from above. 

Still, as Christmastide come round, 
They remember it again; 

Echo still the joyful sound, 

“Peace on earth, good will to men!” 

Yet the hearts must childlike be 
Where such heavenly guests abide; 

Unto children, in their glee. 

All the year is Christmastide! 

Thus forgetting tricks and play 
For a moment, lady dear, 

We would wish you, if we may, 

Merry Christmas glad New Year! 

—Lewis Carroll. 






THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


143 


Hymn for Christmas 

Oh! lovely voices of the sky 
Which hymned the Saviour’s birth, 
Are ye not singing still on high, 

Ye that sang, “peace on earth”? 

To us yet speak the strains 
Wherewith, in time gone by, 

Ye blessed the Syrian swains, 

Oh! voices of the sky! 

Oh! clear and shining light, whose beams 
• That hour Heaven’s glory shed, 
Around the palms, and o’er the streams, 
And on the shepherd’s head, 

Be near, through life and death, 

As in that holiest night 
Of hope, and joy, and faith— 

Oh! clear and shining light! 

—Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 




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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Mercy 

The quality of mercy is not strained; 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed; 

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes: 

’Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown; 

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; 

But mercy is above this sceptred sway; 

It is enthroned in the heart of kings, 

It is an attribute to God himself; 

And earthly power doth then show likest God’s 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this— 

That in the course of justice none of us 
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy. 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. 


■William Shakespeare. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


145 


Sonnets 

xxxiii 

Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, 

Kissing with golden face the meadows green, 

Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; 

Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 
With ugly rack on his celestial face, 

And from the forlorn world his visage hide, 

Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: 

Even so my sun one early morn did shine 
With all triumphant splendor on my brow; 

But out, alack! he was but one hour mine; 

The region cloud hath masked him from me now. 

Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; 

Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s sun 
staineth. 




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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


ix 

Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore, 
So do our minutes hasten to their end; 

Each changing place with that which goes before, 
In sequent toil all forwards do contend. 

Nativity, once in the main of light, 

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned, 
Crooked eclipses ’gainst his glory fight, 

And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound. 
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, 

And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow; 

Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth, 

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow: 

And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand, 
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 

—William Shakespeare . 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


147 


Lines Supposed to be Written the Night 
Before His Execution 

E’en such is time; which takes on trust 
Our youth, our joys, our all we have, 

And pays us back with earth and dust; 

Who in the dark and silent grave, 

When we have wandered all our ways, 

Shuts up the story of our days: 

But from this earth, this grave, this dust, 

My God shall raise me up, I trust. 

—Sir IValter Raleigh. 


The Battle of Agincourt 

Fair stood the wind for France 
When we our sails advance, 
Nor now to prove our chance 
Longer will tarry; 

But putting to the main, 

At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train, 
Landed King Harry. 





148 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


And taking many a fort, 
Furnished in warlike sort, 
Marched towards Agincourt 
In happy hour; 

Skirmishing day by day 
With those that stopped his way, 
Where the French general lay 
With all his power. 

Which in his height of pride, 
King Henry to deride, 

His ransom to provide 
To his King sending; 

Which he neglects the while, 

As from a nation vile, 

Yet, with an angry smile, 

Their fall portending. 

And turning to his men, 

Quoth our brave Henry then, 
“Though they to one be ten, 

Be not amazed. 

Yet have we well begun, 

Battles so bravely won 
Have ever to the sun 
By fame been raised. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


149 


“And for myself,” quoth he, 

“This my full rest shall be; 
England ne’er mourn for me, 

Nor more esteem me. 

Victor I will remain, 

Or on this earth lie slain, 

Never shall she sustain, 

Loss to redeem me. 

“Poictiers and Cressy tell, 

When most their pride did swell, 
Under our swords they fell: 

No less our skill is, 

Than when our grandsire great, 
Claiming the regal seat 
By many a warlike feat 

Lopped the French lilies.” 

The Duke of York so dread 
The eager vanward led, 

With the main Henry sped, 
Among the henchmen. 

Exeter had the rear, 

A braver man not there, 

O Lord! how hot they were 
On the false Frenchmen! 




50 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


They now to fight are gone, 
Armour on armour shone, 
Drum now to drum did groan, 
To hear was wonder ; 

That with the cries they make, 
The very earth did shake, 
Trumpet to trumpet spake, 
Thunder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 

O noble Erpingham, 

Which did the signal aim 
To our hid forces; 

When from a meadow by, 

Like a storm suddenly, 

The English archery 

Struck the French horses. 

With Spanish yew so strong, 
Arrows a cloth-yard long, 

That like to serpents stung, 
Piercing the weather; 

None from his fellow starts, 

But playing manly parts, 

And like true English hearts, 
Stuck close together. 






THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


151 


When down their bows they threw, 
And forth their bilbows drew, 

And on the French they flew; 

Not one was tardy; 

Arms were from shoulders sent; 
Scalps to the teeth were rent, 

Down the French peasants went, 
Our men were hardy. 

This while our noble king, 

His broad sword brandishing, 
Down the French host did ding, 

As to o’erwhelm it; 

And many a deep wound lent 
His arms with blood besprent, 

And many a cruel dent 
Bruised his helmet. 

Gloucester, that duke so good, 

Next of the royal blood, 

For famous England stood, 

With his brave brother; 
Clarence, in steel so bright, 
Though but a maiden knight, 

Yet in that furious fight 
Scarce such another. 




152 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Warwick in blood did wade, 

Oxford the foe invade, 

And cruel slaughter made, 

Still as they ran up; 

Suffolk his axe did ply, 

Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bear them right doughtily, 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin’s day 
Fought was this noble fray, 

Which fame did not delay 
To England to carry. 

Oh, when shall Englishmen 
With such acts fill a pen, 

Or England breed again 
Such a King Harry! 

—Michael Drayton. 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


153 


On His Blindness 

When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 

And that one talent which is death to hide, 

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest he, returning, chide; 

“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?” 

I fondly ask: but patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need 
Either man’s work, or his own gifts; who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state 
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, 

And post o’er land and ocean without rest: 

They also serve who only stand and wait.” 

—John Milton. 





154 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


From “An Honest Man’s Fortune” 

Man is his own star, and the soul that can 
Render an honest and a perfect man, 
Commands all light, all influence, all fate; 
Nothing to him falls early or too late; 

Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, 

Our fatal shadows that walk by us still. 

— Fletcher . 


Providence 

God moves in a mysterious way 
His wonders to perform; 

He plants His footsteps in the sea, 
And rides upon the storm. 

Deep in unfathomable mines 
Of never-failing skill, 

He treasures up His bright designs, 
And works His sovereign will. 







THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


155 


Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take; 

The clouds ye so much dread 

Are big with mercy, and shall break 
In blessings on your head. 

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, 

But trust Him for His grace; 

Behind a frowning Providence 
He hides a smiling face. 

His purposes will ripen fast, 

Unfolding every hour; 

The bud may have a bitter taste, 

But sweet will be the flower. 

Blind unbelief is sure to err, 

And scan his work in vain; 

God is His own interpreter, 

And He will make it plain. 

—William Cow per. 




156 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


To a Mountain Daisy 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 

Thou’s met me in an evil hour; 

For I maun crush amang the stoure 
Thy slender stem: 

To spare thee now is past my power, 

Thou bonny gem. 

Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet, 

The bonny lark, companion meet 

Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet 
Wi’ speckled breast, 

When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 
The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 

Upon thy early, humble birth; 

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
Amid the storm; 

Scarce reared above the parent-earth 
Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 

High sheltering woods and wa’s maun shield, 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


i57 


But thou, beneath the random bield 
O’ clod, or stane, 

Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 

Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
In humble guise 

But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies! 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 

Sweet floweret of the rural shade! 

By love’s simplicity betrayed, 

And guileless trust, 

Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 
Low i’ the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard, 

On life’s rough ocean luckless-starred! 
Unskilful he to note the card 
Of prudent lore, 

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 
And whelm him o’er! 





58 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Such fate to suffering worth is given, 

Who long with wants and woes has striven, 
By human pride or cunning driven 
To misery’s brink, 

Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, 
He, ruined, sink! 

Even thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate, 
That fate is thine—no distant date; 

Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on the bloom, 

Till crushed beneath the furrow’s weight, 
Shall be thy doom! 

—Robert Burns. 


Bannockburn 

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 

Or to victorie. 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; 

See the front o’ battle lower; 

See approach proud Edward’s power— 
Chains and slaverie! 

Wha will be a traitor knave? 

Wha can fill a coward’s grave? 

Wha sae base as be a slave? 

Let him turn and flee! 

Wha for Scotland’s King and law 
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa’? 

Let him*on wi’ me! 

By oppression’s woes and pains! 

By your sons in servile chains! 

We will drain our dearest veins, 

But they shall be free! 

Lay the proud usurpers low! 

Tyrants fall in every foe! 

Liberty’s in every blow! 

Let us do, or die! 


—Robert Burns. 




i6o 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


The Tiger 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 

What immortal hand or eye 
Framed thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt that fire within thine eyes? 

On what wings dared he aspire? 

What the hand dared seize the fire? 

And what shoulder, and what art, 

Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 

What dread hand formed thy dread feet? 

What the hammer, what the chain, 

Knit thy strength and forged thy brain? 
What the anvil? What dread grasp 
Dared thy deadly terrors clasp? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did He smile His work to see? 

Did He who made the lamb, make thee? 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


61 


Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 

What immortal hand or eye 
Framed thy fearful symmetry? 

—William Blake. 


Lochinvar 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west; 
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, 
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none; 
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, 
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; 
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 

The bride had consented, the gallant came late: 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 






THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


162 


So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 

Among bridesmen and kinsmen, and brothers and all: 
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword, 
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), 
“O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?” 

“I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide— 
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, 

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.” 

The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up, 

He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup, 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. 

He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,— 
“Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 

That never a hall such a gallaird did grace; 

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and 
plume; 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


163 


And the bridemaidens whispered, “ ’Twere better by 
far 

To have matched our fair cousin with young 
Lochinvar.” 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 

When they reached the hall door, and the charger 
stood near; 

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!— 

“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; 

They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young 
Lochinvar. 

There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby 
clan; 

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and 
they ran; 

There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, 

But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see. 

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 

Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? 

—Sir Walter Scott. 




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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Before the Battle of Waterloo 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 

And Belgium’s capital had gathered then 
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 

The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men; 

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage bell; 

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! 

Did ye not hear it?—no; ’twas but the wind, 

Or the car rattling o’er the stony street; 

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; 

No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet— 

But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more, 

As if the clouds its echo would repeat; 

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 

Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon’s opening roar! 

Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain; he did hear 
That sound the first amid the festival, 

And caught its tone with death’s prophetic ear; 







THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


165 


And when they smiled because he deemed it near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, 

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: 
He rushed into the field, and foremost, fighting fell. 

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago, 

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; 

And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne’er might be repeated: who would guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? 

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, 

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 

And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; 

And near, the beat of the alarming drum, 

Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 

While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb, 

Or whispering, with white lips—“The foe! They come! 
they come!” 






THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


166 


And wild and high the “Camerons’ Gathering” rose, 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills 
Have heard; and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:— 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill! But, with the breath which fills 
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, 

And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s 
ears. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 

Last eve in beauty’s circle proudly gay, 

The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 

The morn the marshalling in arms—the day 
Battle’s magnificently stern array! 

The thunder clouds close o’er it, which when rent, 
The earth is covered thick with other clay, 

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 
Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent! 

—Lord Byron. 




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l67 


A Farewell 

My fairest child, I have no song to give you; 

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray: 

Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you, 

For every day. 

I’ll teach you how to sing a clearer carol 
Than lark’s, who hails the dawn o’er breezy down, 
To earn yourself a purer poet’s laurel 
Than Shakespeare’s crown. 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever; 

Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: 

And so make Life, Death, and that vast For-Ever 
One grand, sweet song. 


—Charles Kingsley. 




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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


The Burial of Sir John Moore 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 

As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O’er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning; 

By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light, 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him: 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 

With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 




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69 


We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head, 
And we far away on the billow! 

Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone, 

And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,— 

B-ut little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 

When the clock struck the hour of retiring; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone— 

But we left him alone with his glory. 

—Charles Wolfe. 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Pirate Story 

Three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing, 

Three of us aboard in the basket on the lea. 

Winds are in the air, they are blowing in the spring, 
And waves are on the meadow like the waves there 
are at sea. 

Where shall we adventure, to-day that we’re afloat, 
Wary of the weather and steering by a star? 

Shall it be to Africa, a-steering of the boat, 

To Providence, or Babylon, or off to Malabar? 

Hi! but here’s a squadron a-rowing on the sea— 

Cattle on the meadow a-charging with a roar! 
Quick, and we’ll escape them, they’re as mad as they 
can be, 

The wicket is the harbour and the garden is the 
shore. 


—Robert Louis Stevenson. 






THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


171 


The Land of Story-Books 

At evening when the lamp is lit, 
Around the fire my parents sit; 

They sit at home and talk and sing, 
And do not play at anything. 

Now, with my little gun, I crawl 
All in the dark along the wall, 

And follow round the forest track 
Away behind the sofa back. 

There, in the night, where none can spy, 
All in my hunter’s camp I lie, 

And play at books that I have read 
Till it is time to go to bed. 

These are the hills, these are the woods, 
These are my starry solitudes; 

And there the river by whose brink 
The roaring lions come to drink. 





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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


I see the others far away 
As if in firelit camp they lay, 

And I, like to an Indian scout, 

Around their party prowled about. 

So, when my nurse comes in for me, 

Home I return across the sea, 

And go to bed with backward looks 
At my dear land of Story-books. 

—Robert Louis Stevenson. 


The Battle of Blenheim 

It was a summer evening— 

Old Kaspar’s work was done, 
And he before his cottage door 
Was sitting in the sun; 

And by him sported on the green 
His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


i73 


She saw her brother Peterkin 
Roll something large and round, 
Which he beside the rivulet, 

In playing there, had found; 

He came to ask what he had found, 

That was so large, and smooth, and round. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 

Who stood expectant by; 

And then the old man shook his head, 
And, with a natural sigh— 

“ ’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he, 
“Who fell in the great victory. 

“I find them in the garden, 

For there’s many here about; 

And often when I go to plough, 

The ploughshare turns them out; 

For many thousand men,” said he, 

“Were slain in the great victory.” 

“Now tell us what ’twas all about,” 

Young Peterkin he cries; 

And little Wilhelmine looks up 
With wonder-waiting eyes— 

“Now tell us all about the war, 

And what they fought each other for.” 




174 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


“It was the English/’ Kaspar cried, 
“Who put the French to rout; 

But what they fought each other for 
I could not well make out; 

But everybody said,” quoth he, 

“That ’twas a famous victory. 

“My father lived at Blenheim then, 
Yon little stream hard by; 

They burnt his dwelling to the ground, 
And he was forced to fly; 

So with his wife and child he fled, 

Nor had he where to rest his head. 

“With fire and sword the country round 
Was wasted far and wide; 

And many a childing mother there, 

And new-born baby died; 

But things like that, you know, must be 

At every famous victory. 

“They say it was a shocking sight 
After the field was won—- 

For many thousand bodies here 
Lay rotting in the sun; 

But things like that, you know, must be 

After every famous victory. 






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i75 


“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won, 
And our good Prince Eugene.” 

“Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!” 

Said little Wilhelmine. 

“Nay—nay—my little girl!” quoth he, 

“It was a famous victory. 

“And everybody praised the duke, 

Who this great fight did win.” 

“But what good came of it at last?” 

Quoth little Peterkin. 

“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he; 

“But ’twas a famous victory.” 

—Robert Southey. 


The Retired Cat 

A poet’s cat, sedate and grave 
As poet well could wish to have, 

Was much addicted to inquire 
For nooks to which she might retire, 
And where, secure as mouse in chink, 
She might repose, or sit and think. 





176 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Sometimes ascending, debonair, 

An apple tree, or lofty pear, 

Lodged with convenience in the fork 
She watched the gardener at his work; 
Sometimes her ease and solace sought 
In an old empty watering pot; 

There, wanting nothing but a fan, 

To seem some nymph in her sedan, 
Appareled in exactest sort, 

And ready to be borne to court, 

But love of change it seems has place 
Not only in our wiser race; 

Cats also feel, as well as we, 

That passion’s force, and so did she. 

Her climbing, she began to find, 
Exposed her too much to the wind, 

And the old utensil of tin 
Was cold and comfortless within; 

She therefore wished, instead of those, 
Some place of more secure repose, 
Where neither cold might come nor air 
Too rudely wanton with her hair, 

And sought it in the likeliest mode 
Within her master’s snug abode. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


177 


A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined 
With linen of the softest kind— 

A drawer impending o’er the rest, 

Half open, in the topmost chest, 

Of depth enough, and none to spare, 
Inviting her to slumber there. 

Puss, with delight beyond expression, 
Surveyed the scene and took possession. 
Then resting at her ease, ere long, 

And lulled by her own humdrum song, 

She left the cares of life behind, 

And slept as she would sleep her last; 

When in came, housewifely inclined, 

The chambermaid, and shut it fast; 

By no malignity impelled, 

But all unconscious whom it held. 
Awakened by the shock, cried Puss, 

“Was ever cat attended thus! 

The open drawer was left I see, 

Merely to prove a nest for me; 

For soon as I was well composed, 

Then came the maid, and it was closed. 

How smooth these kerchiefs and how sweet; 
Oh! what a delicate retreat, 

I will resign myself to rest, 





178 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Till Sol declining in the west, 

Shall call to supper, when no doubt, 

Susan will come and let me out.” 

The evening came, the sun descended, 

And Puss remained still unattended. 

The night rolled tardily away 
(With her, indeed, ’twas never day), 

The sprightly moon her course renewed, 

The evening gray again ensued; 

And Puss came into mind no more 
Than if entombed the day before. 

With hunger pinched, and pinched for room, 
She now presaged approaching doom, 

Nor slept a single wink or purred, 

•Conscious of jeopardy incurred. 

That night, by chance, the poet watching, 
Heard an inexplicable scratching; 

His noble heart went pit-a-pat, 

And to himself he said, “What’s that?” 

He drew the curtain at his side, 

And forth he peeped, but nothing spied; 
Yet, by his ear directed, guessed 
Something imprisoned in the chest, 

And doubtful what, with prudent care, 
Resolved it should continue there. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


179 


At length a voice which well he knew, 

A long and melancholy mew, 

Saluting his poetic ears, 

Consoled him and dispelled his fears. 
He left his bed, he trod the floor, 

And ’gan in haste the drawers explore, 
The lowest first, and without stop 
The rest in order, to the top; 

For ’tis truth well known to most, 

That whatsoever thing is lost, 

We seek it ere it come to light 
In every cranny but the right. 

Forth skipped the cat, not now replete, 
As erst, with airy self-conceit, 

Nor in her own fond apprehension 
A theme for all the world’s attention; 
But sober, modest, cured of all 
Her notions so hyperbolical, 

And wishing for her place of rest 
Anything rather than a chest. 

Then stepped the poet into bed 
With this reflection in his head: 





i8o 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Moral 

Beware of too sublime a sense 
Of your own worth and consequence! 

The man who dreams himself so great, 

And his importance of such weight, 

That all around in all that’s done, 

Must move and act for him alone, 

Will learn in school of tribulation, 

The folly of his expectation. 

—William Cow per. 


The Eagle 

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 

Ringed with the azure world, he stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; 

He watches from his mountain walls, 

And like a thunderbolt he falls. 

—Alfred Tennyson . 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 181 


Columbus 

Behind him lay the gray Azores, 

Behind the gates of Hercules; 

Before him not the ghost of shores, 

Before him only shoreless seas. 

The good mate said: “Now must we pray, 
For lo! the very stars are gone; 

Speak, Admiral, what shall I say?” 

“Why say, sail on! and on!” 

“My men grow mut’nous day by day; 

My men grow ghastly wan and weak.” 
The stout mate thought of home; a spray 
Of salt wave wash’d his swarthy cheek. 
“What shall I say, brave Admiral, 

If we sight naught but seas at dawn?” 
“Why, you shall say, at break of day: 

‘Sail on! sail on! and on!’ ” 

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, 
Until at last the blanch’d mate said: 
“Why, now, not even God would know 
Should I and all my men fall dead. 
These very winds forget their way, 

For God from these dread seas is gone. 
Now speak, brave Admiral, and say—” 

He said: “Sail on! and on!” 





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They sailed, they sailed, then spoke his mate: 

“This mad sea shows his teeth to-night, 

He curls his lip, he lies in wait, 

With lifted teeth as if to bite! 

Brave Admiral, say but one word; 

What shall we do when hope is gone?” 

The words leaped as a leaping sword: 

“Sail on! sail on! and on!” 

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, 

And thro’ the darkness peered that night 
Ah, darkest night! and then a speck— 

A light! a light! a light! a light! 

It grew—a star-lit flag unfurled! 

It grew to be Time’s burst of dawn; 

He gained a world! he gave that world 
Its watch-word: “On! and on!” 

—Joaquin Miller. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


183 


Concord Hymn 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled, 

Here once the embattled farmers stood, 

And fired the shot heard round the world, 

The foe long since in silence slept; 

Alike the conquerer silent sleeps; 

And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 

We set to-day a votive stone; 

That memory may their deed redeem, 

When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
To die, and leave their children free, 

Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 

—Ralph Waldo Emerson. 





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Barbara Frietchie 

(September 13, 1862) 

Up from the meadows rich with corn, 

Clear in the cool September morn, 

The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 

Round about them orchards sweep, 

Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 

Fair as the garden of the Lord 

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde. 

On that pleasant morn of the early fall 
When Lee marched over the mountain wall; 

Over the mountains winding down, 

Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 

Forty flags with their silver stars, 

Forty flags with their crimson bars, 

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun 
Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


185 


Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town, 

She took up the flag the men hauled down; 

In her attic window the staff she set, 

To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right 
He glanced; the old flag met his sight. 

“Halt!”—the dust-brown ranks stood fast. 
“Fire!”—out blazed the rifle-blast. 

It shivered the window, pane and sash; 

It rent the banner with seam and gash. 

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. 

She leaned far out on the window sill, 

And shook it forth with a royal will, 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


186 


“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
But spare your country’s flag,” she said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame. 
Over the face of the leader came; 

The nobler nature within him stirred 
To life at that woman’s deed and word; 

“Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog! March on!” he said. 

All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet; 

All day long that free flag tossed 
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 
On the loyal winds that loved it well; 

And through the hill gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good night. 

Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er, 

And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


187 


Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave, 

Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! 

Peace and order and beauty draw 
Round thy symbol of light and law; 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Frederick town! 

—John Greenleaf Whittier. 


The Bugle Song 

The splendor falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story: 

The long light shakes across the lakes 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, farther going! 

O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: 

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river: 

Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 

And grow forever and forever. 

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 

—Alfred Tennyson. 


The Ship of State 

Sail on, sail on, O Ship of State, 
Sail on, O Union, strong and great! 
Humanity, with all its fears, 

With all the hopes of future years, 
Is hanging breathless on thy fate! 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


189 


We know what Master laid thy keel, 

What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope; 
What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 

In what a forge and what a heat 
Were forged the anchors of thy hope! 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock— 

’Tis of the wave, and not the rocks; 

’Tis but the flapping of the sail, 

And not a rent made by the gale! 

In spite of rock, and tempest roar, 

In spite of false lights on the shore, 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee. 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 
Our faith, triumphant o’er our fears, 

Are all with thee, are all with thee! 

—Henry IV. Longfellow. 






THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


190 


Boats Sail on the Rivers 

Boats sail on the rivers, 

And ships sail on the seas; 

But clouds that sail across the sky 
Are prettier far than these. 

There are bridges on the rivers, 

As pretty as you please; 

But the bow that bridges heaven, 

And overtops the trees, 

And builds a road from earth to sky, 

Is prettier far than these. 

—Christina Georgina Rossetti. 


Why Repine, My Friend? 

Why, why repine, my pensive friend, 
At pleasures slipt away? 

Some the stern Fates will never lend, 
And all refuse to stay. 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


191 


I see the rainbow in the sky, 

The dew upon the grass, 

I see them, and I ask not why 
They glimmer or they pass. 

With folded arms I linger not 
To call them back; ’twere vain; 

In this, or in some other spot, 

I know they’ll shine again. 

—Walter Savage Landor. 


To A Waterfowl 

Whither, midst falling dew, 

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
Thy solitary way? 

Vainly the fowler’s eye 

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 





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Seek’st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 

Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
On the chafed ocean side? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,— 
The desert and illimitable air,— 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned, 

At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end; 

Soon shalt thou find a summer home and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, 
Soon, o’er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
And shall not soon depart. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


93 


He who, from zone to zone, 

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 

Will lead my steps aright. 

—William Cullen Bryant. 


Breathes There A Man 

Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 

This is my own, my native land! 

Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, 
As home his footsteps he hath turned, 

From wandering on a foreign strand? 

If such there breathe, go, mark him well; 

For him no minstrel raptures swell; 

High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 

The wretch, concentered all in self, 

Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 

And, double dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 

—Sir Walter Scott. 






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Bruce and The Spider 

For Scotland’s and for freedom’s right 
The Bruce his part had played, 

In five successive fields of fight 
Been conquered and dismayed; 

Once more against the English host 
His band he led, and once more lost 
The meed for which he fought; 

And now from battle, faint and worn, 

The homeless fugitive forlorn 
A hut’s lone shelter sought. 

And cheerless was that resting-place 
For him who claimed a throne: 

His canopy, devoid of grace, 

The rude, rough beams alone; 

The heather couch his only bed,— 

Yet well I ween had slumber fled 
From couch of eider-down! 

Through darksome night till dawn of day, 
Absorbed in wakeful thoughts he lay 
Of Scotland and her crown. 

The sun rose brightly, and its gleam 
Fell on that hapless bed, 

And tinged with light each shapeless beam 
Which roofed the lowly shed; 

When, looking up with wistful eye, 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


195 


The Bruce beheld a spider try 
His filmy thread to fling 
From beam to beam of that rude cot; 

And well the insect’s toilsome lot 
Taught Scotland’s future king. 

Six times his gossamery thread 
The wary spider threw; 

In vain the filmy line was sped, 

For powerless or untrue 
Each aim appeared, and back recoiled 
The patient insect, six times foiled, 

And yet unconquered still; 

And soon the Bruce, with eager eye, 

Saw him prepare once more to try 
His courage, strength, and skill. 

One effort more, his seventh and last— 

The hero hailed the sign!— 

And on the wished-for beam hung fast 
That slender, silken line! 

Slight as it was, his spirit caught 
The more than omen for his thought 
The lesson well could trace, 

Which ever “he who runs may read,” 

That Perseverance gains its meed,— 

And Patience wins the race. 

—Bernard Barton. 




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Make Way For Liberty 

“Make way for Liberty!” he cried; 

Made way for Liberty, and died! 

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, 

A living wall, a human wood! 

A wall, where every conscious stone 
Seemed to its kindred thousands grown; 

A rampart all assaults to bear, 

Till time to dust their frames should wear; 
A wood like that enchanted grove 
In which, with friends, Rinaldo strove, 
Where every silent tree possessed 
A spirit prisoned in its breast, 

Which the first stroke of coming strife 
Would startle into hideous life: 

So dense, so still, the Austrians stood, 

A living wall, a human wood! 

Impregnable their front appears, 

All horrent with projected spears, 

Whose polished points before them shine, 
From flank to flank, one brilliant line, 
Bright as the breakers’ splendors run 
Along the billows to the sun. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


97 


Opposed to these, a hovering band, 
Contending for their native land; 

Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke 
From manly necks the ignoble yoke, 

And forged their fetters into swords, 

On equal terms to fight their lords; 

And what insurgent rage had gained, 

In many a mortal fray maintained: 

Marshaled once more at freedom’s call, 

They came to conquer or to fall, 

Where he who conquered, he who fell, 

Was deemed a dead or living Tell. 

And now the work of life and death 
Hung on the passing of a breath; 

The fire of conflict burned within; 

The battle trembled to begin: 

Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, 
Point for attack was nowhere found; 

Where’er the impatient Switzers gazed, 

The unbroken line of lances blazed; 

That line ’twere suicide to meet, 

And perish at their tyrants’ feet; 

How could they rest within their graves, 

And leave their homes the homes of slaves? 
Would they not feel their children tread 
With clanking chains above their head? 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


198 


It must not be: this day, this hour, 
Annihilates the oppressor’s power; 

All Switzerland is in the field, 

She will not fly, she cannot yield; 

Few were the numbers she could boast; 
But every freeman was a host, 

And felt as though himself were he 
On whose sole arm hung victory. 

It did depend on one, indeed: 

Behold him! Arnold Winkelried! 

There sounds not to the trump of fame 
The echo of a nobler name. 

Unmarked he stood amid the throng, 

In rumination, deep and long, 

Till you might see with sudden grace, 
The very thought come o’er his face; 

And by the motion of his form, 
Anticipate the bursting storm; 

And by the uplifting of his brow, 

Tell where the bolt would strike, and how, 
But ’twas no sooner thought than done; 
The field was in a moment won. 

“Make way for Liberty!” he cried: 

Then ran, with arms extended wide, 

As if his dearest friend to clasp; 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


99 


Ten spears he swept within his grasp: 
“Make way for Liberty!” he cried: 

Their keen points met from side to side; 

He bowed among them like a tree, 

And thus made way for Liberty. 

Swift to the breach his comrades fly; 

“Make way for Liberty!” they cry, 

And through the Austrian phalanx dart, 

As rushed the spears through Arnold’s heart; 
While instantaneous as his fall, 

Rout, ruin, panic scattered all. 

An earthquake could not overthrow 
A city with a surer blow. 

Thus Switzerland again was free, 

Thus Death made way for Liberty! 

—James Montgomery. 


Young and Old 

When all the world is young, lad, 
And all the trees are green; 
And every goose a swan, lad, 
And every lass a queen; 

Then hey for boot and horse, lad, 







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And round the world away; 

Young blood must have its course, lad, 

And every dog his day. 

When all the world is old, lad, 

And all the trees are brown; 

And all the sport is stale, lad, 

And all the wheels run down: 

Creep home, and take your place there, 
The spent and maimed among: 

God grant you find one face there 
You loved when all was young. 

—Charles Kingsley. 


The Gloves and the Lions 

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal 
sport, 

And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the 
court: 

The nobles fill’d the benches round, the ladies by their 
side; 

And ’mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped 
to make his bride. 






THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


201 


And truly ’twas a gallant thing to see that crowning 
show, 

Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts 
below. 

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing 
jaws; 

They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind 
went with their paws; 

With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled one 
on another, 

Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund’rous 
smother; 

The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing 
through the air; 

Said Francis then, “Good gentlemen, we’re better here 
than there!” 

De Lorge’s love o’erheard the king, a beauteous lively 
dame, 

With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which always 
seem’d the same: 

She thought, “The count, my lover, is as brave as brave 
can be; 

He surely would do desperate things to show his love of 
me! 




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“King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is won¬ 
drous fine; 

I’ll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will 
be mine!” 

She dropp’d her glove to prove his love: then looked 
on him and smiled; 

He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions 
wild! 

The leap was quick; return was quick; he soon re¬ 
gained his place. 

Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the 
lady’s face! 

“Well done!” cried Francis, “bravely done!” and he 
rose from where he sat: 

“No love,” quoth he, “but vanity sets love a task like 

—Leigh Hunt. 


Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam 

I. 

Wake! For the Sun who scatter’d into flight 
The Stars before him from the Field of Night 
Drives Night along with them from Heav’n, and 
strikes 

The Sultan’s Turret with a Shaft of Light. 






THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


203 


LXXI. 

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, 
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit 
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, 

Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it. 

XCIX. 

Ah Love; could you and I with Him conspire 
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, 
Would not we shatter it to bits—and then 
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire! 

—Edward FitzGerald. 


The Jackdaw of Rheims 

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal’s chair! 

Bishop, and abbot, and prior were there; 

Many a monk, and many a friar, 

Many a knight, and many a squire, 

With a great many more of lesser degree— 

In sooth a goodly company; 

And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. 
Never, I ween, was a prouder seen, 

Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams 
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims! 





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In and out through the motley rout, 

That little Jackdaw kept hopping about; 

Here and there like a dog in a fair, 

Over comfits and cakes, and dishes and plates, 

Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, 

Mitre and crosier! he hopp’d upon all! 

With saucy air, he perch’d on the chair 
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat 
In the great Lord Cardinal’s great red hat; 

And he peer’d in the face of his Lordship’s Grace, 
With a satisfied look, as if he would say, 

“We two are the greatest folks here to-day!” 

And the priests, with awe, as such freaks they saw, 
Said, “The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw!” 

The feast was over, the board was clear’d, 

The dawns and the custards had all disappear’d, 

And six little Singing-boys,—dear little souls! 

In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles, 

Came, in order due, two by two, 

Marching that grand refectory through. 

A nice little boy held a golden ewer, 

Emboss’d and fill’d with water, as pure 
As any that dows between Rheims and Namur, 

Which* a nice little boy stood ready to catch 
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


205 


Two nice little boys, rather more grown, 

Carried lavender-water and eau de Cologne; 

And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, 

Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. ’ 

One little boy more a napkin bore, 

Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, 

And a Cardinal s hat mark’d in u permanent ink.” 

The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight 
Of these nice little boys dress’d all in white: 

From his finger he draws His costly turquoise; 

And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, 
Deposits it straight by the side of his plate, 

While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait; 

Till, when nobody’s dreaming of any such thing, 
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring. 

* * * * * 

There’s a cry and a shout, and a deuce of a rout, 

And nobody seems to know what they’re about, 

But the monks have their pockets all turn’d inside out; 
The friars are kneeling, and hunting, and feeling 
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. 
The Cardinal drew off each plum-color’d shoe, 

And left his red stockings exposed to the view; 

He peeps, and he feels in the toes and the heels; 
They turn up the dishes,—they turn up the plates,— 
They take up the poker and poke out the grates,— 





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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


They turn up the rugs,—they examine the mugs;— 
But no!—no such thing;—they can’t find the ring! 

And the Abbot declared that, “when nobody twigg’d 
it: > 

Some rascal or other had popp’d in, and prigg’d it!” 

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, 

He call’d for his candle, his bell, and his book! 

In holy anger, and pious grief, 

He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! 

He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed; 

From the sole of his foot to the-crown of his head; 

He cursed him in sleeping, that every night 
He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright; 

He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, 

He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; 
He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; 

He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying; 

He cursed him in living, he cursed him dying!— 

Never was heard such a terrible curse! 

But what gave rise to no little surprise, 

Nobody seem’d one penny the worse! 

The day was gone, the night came on, 

The monks and friars they search’d till dawn; 

When the Sacristan saw, on crumpled claw, 

Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw; 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


207 


No longer gay, as on yesterday; 

His feathers all seem’d to be turn’d the wrong way_ 

His pinions droop’d—he could hardly stand— 

His head was as bald as the palm of your hand; 

His eye so dim, so wasted each limb, 

That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, ‘That’s 
Him!— 

That’s the scamp that has done this scandalous thing! 
That’s the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal’s ring!” 
The poor little Jackdaw, when the monks he saw, 
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; 

And turn’d his bald head, as much as to say, 

“Pray, be so good as to walk this way!” 

Slower and slower he limp’d on before, 

Till they came to the back of the belfry door, 

Where the first thing they saw, midst the sticks and the 
straw 

Was the ring in the nest of that little Jackdaw! 

Then the great Lord Cardinal call’d for his book, 

And off that terrible curse he took; 

The mute expression served in lieu of confession, 
And being thus coupled with full restitution, 

The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!— 

When those words were heard, that poor little bird 
Was so changed in a moment, ’twas really absurd, 

He grew sleek, and fat; in addition to that 
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! 






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His tail waggled more even than before; 

But no longer it wagged with an impudent air, 

No longer he perch’d on the Cardinal’s chair. 

He hopp’d now about with a gait devout; 

At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out; 

And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, 

He always seem’d telling the Confessor’s beads. 

If any one lied,—or if any one swore,— 

Or slumber’d in pray-time and happen’d to snore, 
That good Jackdaw would give a great “Caw!” 

As much as to say, “Don’t do so any more!” 

While many remark’d, as his manners they saw, 
That they “never had known such a pious Jackdaw!” 
He long lived the pride of that country side, 

And at last in the odor of sanctity died; 

When, as words were too faint, his merits to paint, 
The Conclave determined to make him a Saint; 
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know, 
It’s the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow, 

So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow! 

—Thomas Ingoldsby. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


209 


The Onset 

Sound an alarm! The foe is come! 

I hear the tramp,—the neigh,—the hum, 

The cry, and the blow of his daring drum: 
Huzzah! 

Sound! The blast of our trumpet blown 
Shall carry dismay into hearts of stone: 

What! shall we shake at a foe unknown? 

Huzzah!—Huzzah! 

Have we not sinews as strong as they? 

Have we not hearts that ne’er gave way? 

Have we not God on our side to-day? 

Huzzah! 

Look; They are staggered on yon black heath! 
Steady awhile, and hold your breath! 

Now is your time, men,—Down like Death! 
Huzzah!—Huzzah! 

Stand by each other, and front your foes! 

Fight, whilst a drop of the red blood flows! 
Fight, as ye fought for the old red rose! 
Huzzah! 

Sound! Bid your terrible trumpets bray! 

Blow, till their brazen throats give way! 

Sound to the battle! Sound, I say! 

Huzzah!—Huzzah! 

—Barry Cornwall. 




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Polonius’s Advice to Laertes 

These few precepts in thy memory 
Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, 

Nor any unproportion’d thought his act. 

Be thou familiar but by no means vulgar. 

Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, 
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel, 

But do not dull thy palm with entertainment 
Of each new-hatch’d unfledged comrade. Beware 
Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, 

Bear’t, that the opposed may beware of thee. 

Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice: 

Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment. 
Costly thy habit, as thy purse can buy, 

But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy: 

For the apparel oft proclaims the man; 

And they in France of the best rank and station 
Are of most select and generous chief in that. 

Neither a borrower nor a lender be: 

For loan oft loses both itself and* friend, 

And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. 

This above all: to thine own self be true, 

And it must follow, as the night the day, 

Thou canst not then be false to any man. 

—William Shakespeare. 






THE EN TER TA IN MEN T SPEAKER 


211 


Rienzi to the Romans 

Friends! 

I come not here to talk. Ye know too well 
The story of our thraldom. We are slaves! 

The bright sun rises to his course, and lights 
A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beam 
Falls on a slave: not such as, swept along 
By the full tide of power, the conquerer leads 
To crimson glory and undying fame,— 

But base, ignoble slaves!—slaves to a horde 
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots; lords, 

Rich in some dozen paltry villages; 

Strong in some hundred spearmen; only great 
In that strange spell—a name! Each hour, dark fraud, 
Or open rapine, or protected murder, 

Cry out against them. But this very day, 

An honest man, my neighbor,—there he stands,— 
Was struck—struck like a dog, by one who wore 
The badge of Ursini! because, forsooth, 

He tossed not high his ready cap in air, 

Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts, 

At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men 
And suffer such dishonor? Men, and wash not 
The stain away in blood? Such shames are common. 

I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to ye, 

I had a brother once, a gracious boy, 

Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, 




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Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look 
Of Heaven upon his face, which limners give 
To the beloved disciple. How I loved 
That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen years 
Brother at once and son! He left my side, 

A summer bloom on his fair cheeks—a smile 
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour, 

The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw 
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried 
For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! Rouse, ye slaves! 
Have ye brave sons?—Look in the next fierce brawl 
To seem them die! Have ye fair daughters,—Look 
To seem them live, torn from your arms, distained, 
Dishonoured; and, if ye dare call for justice, 

Be answered by the lash. Yet this is Rome, 

That sat on her Seven Hills, and from her throne 
Of beauty ruled the world! Yet we are Romans! 
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman 
Was greater than a king! And once, again,— 

Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread 
Of either Brutus!—once again, I swear, 

The eternal city shall be free! her sons 
Shall walk with princes! 


—Mary Russel Mitford. 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


213 


Nursery Reminiscences 

I remember, I remember, 

When I was a little boy, 

One fine morning in September 
Uncle brought me home a toy. 

I remember how he patted 

Both my cheeks in kindliest mood; 

“Then,” said he, “you little Fat-head, 
There’s a top because you’re good.” 

Grandmamma—a shrewd observer— 

I remember gazed upon 

My new top, and said with fervor, 
“Oh! how kind of Uncle John!” 

While mamma, my form caressing,— 
In her eye the tear-drop stood, 

Read me this fine moral lesson, 

“See what comes of being good!” 

I remember, I remember, 

On a wet and windy day, 

One cold morning in December, 

I stole out and went to play; 




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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


I remember Billy Hawkins 
Came, with his pewter squirt 
Squibb’d my pantaloons and stockings, 
Till they were all over dirt! 

To my mother for protection 
I ran, quaking every limb:— 

She exclaimed, with fond affection, 
“Gracious Goodness! look at him!”— 

Pa cried, when he saw my garment,— 
’Twas a newly-purchased dress— 
“Oh! you nasty little Warment, 

How come you in such a mess?” 

Then he caught me by the collar,— 
Cruel only to be kind— 

And to my exceeding dolor, 

Gave me—several slaps behind. 

Grandmamma, while yet I smarted, 

As she saw my evil plight, 

Said—’twas rather stony-hearted— 
“Little rascal! sarve him right!” 

I remember, I remember, 

From that sad and solemn day, 
Nevermore in dark December 
Did I venture out to play. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


215 


And the moral which they taught, I 
Well remember; thus they said— 
“Little boys, when they are naughty, 

Must be whipped and sent to bed!” 

—Thomas Ingoldsby. 


The Ride to Aix 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three. 
“Good speed!” cried the watch as the gate-bolts un¬ 
drew; 

“Speed!” echoed the wall to us galloping through. 
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 

And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace— 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our 
place; 

I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, 
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, 
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit, 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. . . . 






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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


By Hasselt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, “Stay spur! 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault’s not in her, 
We’ll remember at Aix;” for one heard the quick 
wheeze 

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering 
knees 

And sunk tail and horrible heave of the flank, 

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; 

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 

’Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like 
chaff; 

Till over by Dalhein a dome-spire sprang white, 
And “Gallop,” gasped Joris, “for Aix is in sight!” 

“How they’ll greet us!”—and all in a moment his roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; 

And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the rim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim. 

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all; 

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 




THE ENTER T A IN M ENT SPEAKER 


2i 7 


Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without a 
peer; 

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or 
good, 

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I remember is friends flocking round 
As I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground; 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine 
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 

Was no more than his due who brought good news 
from Ghent. 

—Robert Browning . 


Ivan the Czar 

He sat in silence on the ground, 

The old and haughty Czar, 

Lonely, though princes girt him round, 
And leaders of the war; 

He had cast his jewelled sabre, 

That many a field had won, 

To the earth beside his youthful dead — 
His fair and first-born son. . . . 







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“There is no crimson on thy cheek, 

And on thy lip no breath; 

I call thee, and thou dost not speak: 

They tell me this is death! 

And fearful things are whispering 
That I the deed have done! 

For the honour of thy father’s name, 

Look up, look up, my son! 

“Well might I know death’s hue and mien; 

But on thine aspect, boy, 

What, till this moment, have I seen 
Save pride and tameless joy? 

Swiftest thou wert to battle, 

And bravest there of all; 

How could I think a warrior’s frame 
Thus like a flower should fall? 

“I will not bear that still cold look— 

Rise up, thou fierce and free! 

Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook 
All, save this calm, from thee. 

Lift brightly up, and proudly, 

Once more thy kindling eyes: 

Hath my word lost its power on earth? 

I say to thee, arise! 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


219 


“Didst thou not know I loved thee well? 

Thou didst not! and art gone, 

In bitterness of soul, to dwell 
Where man must dwell alone. 

Come back young fiery spirit! 

If but one hour, to learn 
The secrets of the folded heart, 

That seemed to thee so stern. 

“Thou wert the first, the first fair child 
That in mine arms I pressed; 

Thou wert the bright one that hast smiled 
Like summer on my breast. 

I reared thee as an eagle, 

To the chase thy steps I led, 

I bore thee on my battle-horse,— 

I look upon thee—dead! 

“Lay down my warlike banners here, 
Never again to wave, 

And bury my red sword and spear, 
Chiefs, in my first-born’s grave; 

And leave me!—I have conquered, 

I have slain—my work is done! 

Whom have I slain? Ye answer not; 
Thou too art mute, my son!” 




220 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


And thus his wild lament was poured 

Through the dark resounding night, 

And the battle knew no more his sword, 

Nor the foaming steed his might. 

He heard strange voices moaning 
In every wind that sighed; 

From the searching stars of heaven he shrank— 
Humbly the conquerer died. 

—Felicia Hemans. 


The Patriot 

It was roses, roses, all the way, 

With myrtle mixed in my path like mad: 

The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, 

The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, 
A year ago on this very day. 

The air broke into a mist with bells, 

The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. 
Had I said, “Good folk, mere noise repels— 
But give me your sun from yonder skies!” 
They had answered “And afterward, what else?” 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


221 


Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun 
To give it my loving friends to keep ! 

Naught man could do, have I left undone: 

And you see my harvest, what I reap 
This very day, now a year is run. 

There’s nobody on the house-tops now— 

Just a palsied few at the windows set; 

For the best of the sight is, all allow, 

At the Shambles’ Gate—or, better yet, 

By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow. 

I go in the rain, and, more than needs, 

A rope cuts both my wrists behind; 

And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, 

For they fling, whoever has a mind, 

Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds. 

Thus I entered, and thus I go! 

In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. 
“Paid by the world, what dost thou owe 
Me?”—God might question; now instead, 

’Tis God shall repay: I am safer so. 

—Robert Browning. 





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THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


The Seminole’s Defiance 

Blaze, with your serried columns! I will not bend the 
knee: 

The shackle ne’er again shall bind the arm which now 
is free! 

I’ve nailed it with the thunder, when the tempest mut¬ 
tered low; 

And where it falls, ye well may dread the lightning of 
its blow. 

I’ve scared you in the city, I’ve scalped you on the 
plain; 

Go, count your chosen where they fell beneath my 
leaden rain! 

I scorn your proffered treaty; the paleface I defy; 

Revenge is stamped upon my spear and “blood” my 
battle-cry! 

Some strike for hope of booty; some to defend their 
all— 

I battle for the joy I have to see the white man fall. 

I love, among the wounded, to hear his dying moan, 

And catch, while chanting at his side, the music of his 
groan. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


223 


You’ve trailed me through the forest; you’ve tracked 
me o’er the stream; 

And struggling through the everglade your bristling 
bayonets gleam. 

But I stand as should the warrior, with his rifle and 
his spear; 

The scalp of vengeance still is red, and warns you— 
“Come not here!” 

Think ye to find my homestead?—I gave it to the fire. 

My tawny household do you seek?—I am a childless 
sire 

But, should you crave life’s nourishment, enough I 
have, and good; 

I live on hate—’tis all my bread; yet light is not my 
food. 

I loathe you with my bosom! I scorn you with mine 
eye! 

And I’ll taunt you with my latest breath, and fight you 

till I die! 

I ne’er will ask for quarter, and I ne’er will be your 
slave; 

But I’ll swim the sea of slaughter till I sink beneath 
the wave! 


— G. IV. Patten. 




224 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Curse of Kehama 

I charm thy life 

From the weapons of strife, 

From stone and from wood, 

From fire and from flood, 

From the serpent’s tooth, 

And the beasts of blood. 

From sickness I charm thee, 

And time shall not harm thee; 

But earth, which is mine, 

Her fruits shall deny thee. 

And the winds shall not touch thee 
When they pass by thee, 

And the dews shall not wet thee 
When they fall nigh thee; 

And thou shalt seek death 
To release thee in vain. 

Thou shalt live in thy pain 
While Kehama shall reign, 

With a fire in thy heart 
And a fire in thy brain; 

And sleep shall obey me, 

And visit thee never, 

And the curse shall be on thee 
For ever and ever! 


—Robert Southey. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


225 


Truth in Parenthesis 

I really take it very kind— 

This visit, Mrs. Skinner— 

I have not seen you such an age— 

(The wretch has come to dinner!) 
Your daughters, too—what loves of girls! 

What heads for painters’ easels! 

Come here, and kiss the infant, dears— 
(And give it, p’rhaps, the measles!) 

Your charming boys I see are home 
From Reverend Mr. Russell’s— 
’Twas very kind to bring them both— 
(What boots for my new Brussels!) 
What! little Clara left at home? 

Well, now, I call that shabby! 

I should have loved to kiss her so— 

(A flabby, dabby, babby!) 

And Mr. S., I hope he’s well? 

But, though he lives so handy, 

He never once drops in to sup— 

(The better for our brandy!) 

Come, take a seat—I long to hear 
About Matilda’s marriage; 

You’ve come, of course, to spend the day 
(Thank Heaven! I hear the carriage!) 





226 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


What! must you go?—next time I hope 
You’ll give me longer measure. 

Nay, I shall see you down the stairs— 
(With most uncommon pleasure!) 

Good bye! good bye! Remember, all, 

Next time you’ll take your dinners— 
(Now, David—mind, I’m not home, 

In future, to the Skinners.) 

—Thomas Hood. 


Bernardo Del Carpio 

The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his 
heart of fire, 

And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned 
sire; 

“I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my captive 
train, 

I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!—Oh! break my 
father’s chain!” 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


227 


“Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed 
man this day: 

Mount thy good horse; and thou and I will meet him 
on his way.” 

Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his 
steed, 

And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger’s foamy 
speed. 

And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a 
glittering band, 

With one that ’midst them stately rode, as a leader in 
the land: 

“Now haste, .Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, 
is he, 

The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so 
long to see.” 

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his 
cheek’s hue came and went: 

He reached that gray-haired chieftain’s side, and there, 
dismounting, bent; 

A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father’s hand he 
took— 

What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit 
shook? 







228 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


That hand was cold, a frozen thing,—it dropped from 
his like lead! 

He looked up to the face above,—the face was of the 
dead! 

A plume waved o’er the noble brow,—the brow was 
fixed and white: 

He met at last, his father’s eyes,—but in them was no 
sight! 

Up from the ground he sprang and gazed;—but who 
could paint that gaze? 

They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and 
amaze: 

They might have chained him, as before that stony 
form he stood; 

For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his 
lips the blood. 

“Father!” at length he murmured low, and wept like 
childhood then: 

Talk not of grief till thou has seen the tears of warlike 
men! 

He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young 
renown,— 

He flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust 
sat down. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


229 


Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly 
mournful brow, 

“No more, there is no more,” he said, “to lift the sword 
for, now; 

My king is false—my hope betrayed! My father—oh! 
the worth, 

The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from 
earth! 

“I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, 
beside thee, yet! 

I would that there our kindred blood on Spain’s free 
soil had met! 

Thou wouldst have known my spirit then;—for thee my 
fields were won; 

And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou 
hadst no son!” 

Then starting from the ground once more, he seized the 
monarch’s rein, 

Amidst the pale and ’wildered looks of all the courtier 
train; 

And, with a fierce, o’er mastering grasp, the rearing 
war-horse led, 

And sternly set them face to face—the kings before the 
dead: 




230 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


“Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father’s hand 
to kiss? 

Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me, what 
is this? 

The voice, the glance, the heart I sought—give answer, 
where are they? 

If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life 
through this cold clay! 

“Into these glassy eyes put light;—be still! keep down 
thine ire!— 

Bid these white lips a blessing speak,—this earth is not 
my sire: 

Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my 
blood was shed!— 

Thou canst not? and a king!—his dust be mountains on 
thy head!” 

He loosed the steed,—his slack hand fell;—upon the 
silent face 

He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from 
that sad place: 

His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial 
strain:— 

His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of 
Spain. 


—Felicia Hemans. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


231 


The Ocean 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll! 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; 

Man marks the earth with ruin—his control 
Stops with the shore;—upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own, 

When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. 

His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him,—thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields 
For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 

And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 

And dashest him again to earth:—there let him lay. 




232 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 

And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 

The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; 

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 

That melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada’s pride or spoils of Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empire, changed in all save thee— 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? 
Thy waters washed them power while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts:—not so thou;— 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves’ play— 

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow— 

Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


233 


Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s form 
Glasses itself in tempest; in all time, 

Calm or convulsed—in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving;—boundless, endless, and sublime— 
The image of Eternity—the throne 

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone 
Obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy 
I wantoned with thy breakers—they to me 
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror—’twas a pleasing fear, 

For I was as it were a child of thee, 

And trusted to thy billows far and near. 

And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here. 

—Lord Byron . 




234 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


My Shadow 

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, 

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. 

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; 

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my 
bed. 

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to 
grow— 

Not at all like proper children, which is always very 
slow; 

For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber 
ball, 

And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him 
at all. 

He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play, 

And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. 

He stays so close beside me, he’s a coward, you can see; 

I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks 
to me! 

One morning, very early, before the sun was up, 

I rose and found the shining dew on every butter-cup; 

But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, 

Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in 

—Robert Louis Stevenson. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


235 


The Arrow and the Song 

I shot an arrow into the air 
It fell to earth, I knew not where; 

For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 

I breathed a song into the air, 

It fell to earth, I knew not where; 

For who has sight so keen and strong 
That it can follow the flight of song? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak 
I found the arrow, still unbroke; 

And the song, from beginning to end, 

I found again in the heart of a friend. 

—Henry W. Longfellow. 


Robert of Lincoln 

Merrily swinging on brier and weed, 
Near to the nest of his little dame, 
Over the mountain-side or mead, 
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name. 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 






236 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Spink, spank, spink, 

Snug and safe is this nest of ours, 

Hidden among the summer flowers. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, 

Wearing a bright, black wedding coat; 
White are his shoulders, and white his crest, 
Hear him call in his merry note, 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink, 

Look what a nice, new coat is mine; 

Sure there was never a bird so fine. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife, 

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 
Passing at home a patient life, 

Broods in the grass while her husband sings, 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink, 

Brood, kind creature, you need not fear 
Thieves and robbers while I am here. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Modest and shy as a nun is she; 

One weak chirp is her only note; 

Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he, 
Pouring boasts from his little throat, 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


237 


Spink, spank, spink, 

Never was I afraid of man, 

Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, 

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight: 
There as the mother sits all day, 

Robert is singing with all his might, 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink, 

Nice good wife that never goes out, 
Keeping house while I frolic about. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Soon as the little ones chip the shell, 

Six wide mouths are open for food; 
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, 
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood: 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink, 

This new life is likely to be 
Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln at length is made 
Sober with work, and silent with care, 
Off is his holiday garment laid, 

Half forgotten that merry air, 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 





238 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Spink, spank, spink, 

Nobody knows but my mate and I, 

Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Summer wanes; the children are grown 
Fun and frolic no more he knows, 

Robert of Lincoln’s a hum-drum drone; 

Off he flies, and we sing as he goes, 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink, 

When you can pipe that merry old strain, 
Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

—William Cullen Bryant . 


The Song In Camp 

“Give us a song!” the soldiers cried, 

The outer trenches guarding, 

When the heated guns of the camps allied 
Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 

Lay, grim and threatening, under; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No longer belched its thunder. 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


239 


There was a pause. A guardsman said, 

“We storm the forts to-morrow; 

Sing while we may, another day, 

Will bring enough of sorrow.” 

They lay along the battery’s side, 

Below the smoking cannon: 

Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, 
And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame; 

Forgot was B-ritain’s glory: 

Each heart recalled a different name, 

But all sang “Annie Laurie.” 

Voice after voice caught up the song, 

Until its tender passion 

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — 
Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 

But, as the song grew louder, 

Something upon the soldier’s cheek 
Washed off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 
The bloody sunset’s embers, 

While the Crimean valleys learned 
How English love remembers. 





240 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


And once again a fire of hell 
Rained on the Russian quarters, 

With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
And bellowing of the mortars! 

And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim 
For a singer, dumb and gory; 

And English Mary mourns for him 
Who sang of “Annie Laurie.” 

Sleep, soldiers! still in honoured rest 
Your truth and valour wearing: 

The bravest are the tenderest,— 

The loving are the daring. 

—Bayard Taylor. 


Sheridan’s Ride 

Up from the South at break of day, 

Bringing from Winchester fresh dismay, 

The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 

Like a herald in haste to the chieftain’s door, 
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, 
Telling the battle was on once more, 

And Sheridan twenty miles away. 





THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


241 


And wider still those billows of war 
Thundered along the horizon’s bar; 

And louder yet into Winchester rolled 
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 

Making the blood of the listener cold 

As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, 

And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester town, 

A good, broad highway leading down; 

And there, through the flush of morning light, 

A steed as black as the steeds of night 
Was seen to pass as with eagle flight; 

As if he knew the terrible need. 

He stretched away with his utmost speed; 

Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, 

With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, 
The dust, like smoke from the cannon’s mouth; 

Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, 
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 

The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; 

Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, 
With Sheridan only ten miles away. 




242 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


Under his spurning feet the road 
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 

And the landscape sped away behind 
Like an ocean.flying before the wind. 

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire, 

Swept on, with his wild eye full of ire. 

But lo! he is nearing his heart’s desire; 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 

With Sheridan only five miles away. 

The first that the General saw were the groups 
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops. 

What was done—what to do? A glance told him both, 
Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, 

He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, 

And the wave of retreat checked its course there, be¬ 
cause 

The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 

With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; 
By the flash of his eye, and the red nostrils’ play, 

He seemed to the whole great army to say: 

“I have brought you Sheridan all the way 
From Winchester down to save the day!” 

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! 

Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! 

And when their statues are placed on high, 






THE EN TER TA IN MEN T SPEAKER 


243 


Under the dome of the Union sky, 

The American soldiers’ Temple of Fame, 

There with the glorious General’s name 
Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: 

“Here is the steed that saved the day, 

By carrying Sheridan into the fight 
From Winchester, twenty miles away!” 

—Thomas Buchanan Read. 


Sir Galahad 

My good blade carves the casques of men, 
My tough lance thrusteth sure, 

My strength is as the strength of ten, 
Because my heart is pure. 

The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 
The hard brands shiver on the steel, 

The splinter’d spear-shafts crack and fly, 
The horse and rider reel: 

They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 
That lightly rain from ladies’ hands. 





244 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


How sweet are looks that ladies bend 
On whom their favours fall! 

For them I battle till the end, 

To save from shame and thrall: 

.But all my heart is drawn above, 

My knees are bow’d in crypt and shrine: 

I never felt the kiss of love, 

Nor maiden’s hand in mine. 

More bounteous aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports move and thrill; 

So keep I fair thro’ faith and prayer 
A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims, 

Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns: 

Then by some secret shrine I ride; 

I hear a voice, but none are there; 

The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 

Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 

The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 
And solemn chaunts resound between. 




THE EN TER TA IN MEN T SPEAKER 


245 


Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 
I find a magic bark; 

I leap on board: no helmsman steers: 

I float till all is dark. 

A gentle sound, an awful light! 

Three angels bear the holy Grail: 

With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 

Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 

As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 
Thro’ dreaming towns I go, 

The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 

The tempest crackles on the leads, 

And ringing, springs from brand and mail: 
But o’er the dark a glory spreads, 

And gilds the driving hail. 

I leave the plain, I climb the height; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields; 

But blessed forms in whistling storms 
Fly o’er waste fens and windy fields. 




246 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


A maiden knight—to me is given 
Such hope, I know not fear; 

I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 
That often meet me here. 

I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces cloth’d in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odours haunt my dreams; 

And, stricken by an angel’s hand, 

This mortal armour that I wear, 

This weight and size, this heart and eyes, 
Are touch’d, are turn’d to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 

And thro’ the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 

Then move the trees, the copses nod, 
Wings flutter, voices hover clear: 

“O just and faithful knight of God! 

Ride on! the prize is near,” 

So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-arm’d I ride, whate’er betide, 

Until I find the holy Grail. 


—Alfred Tennyson. 




THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


247 


The Sandpiper 

Across the lonely beach we flit, 

One little sandpiper and I, 

And fast I gather, bit by bit, 

The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry 
The wild waves reach their hands for it, 

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, 

As up and down the beach we flit, 

One little sandpiper and I. 

Above our heads the sullen clouds 
Scud, black and swift, across the sky; 

Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds 
Stand out the white lighthouses high. 
Almost as far as eye can reach 
I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 

As fast we flit along the beach, 

One little sandpiper and I. 




248 


THE ENTERTAINMENT SPEAKER 


I watch him as he skims along, 

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; 

He starts not at my fitful song, 

Nor flash of fluttering drapery. 

He has no thought of any wrong, 

He scans me with a fearless eye; 

Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong, 
The little sandpiper and I. 

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, 

When the loosed storm breaks furiously? 

My driftwood fire will burn so bright! 

To what warm shelter canst thou fly? 

I do not fear for thee, though wroth 
The tempest rushes through the sky; 

For are we not God’s children both, 

Thou, little sandpiper, and I? 

—Celia Thaxter. 




THE ENTER TAINMENT SPEAKER 


249 


Crossing the Bar 

Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me! 

And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea. 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam, 

When that which drew from out the boundless deep 
Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark! 

And may there be no sadness of farewell, 

When I embark; 

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place 
The flood may bear me far, 

I hope to see my Pilot face to face 
When I have cross’d the bar. 


—Alfred Tennyson. 




ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF AUTHORS 


Page 

ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY 

Marjorie’s Almanac . 63 

“Quite Like a Stocking” . 138 

ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM 

Wishing.:. 101 

ANONYMOUS 

George Washington . 116 

Hearts Like Doors. 82 

I Love Little Pussy. 74 

The Kitten at Play. 102 

Peace . 115 

Words of Welcome. 137 


BARTON, BERNARD 

Bruce and the Spider. 194 

BLAKE, WILLIAM 

The Tiger . 160 

BREWER, EBENEZER COBHAM 

Little Things . 99 

BROWNING, ROBERT 

The Patriot....'.. 220 

The Ride to Aix. 215 

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN 

Robert of Lincoln. 235 

To a Water Fowl. 191 

BURNS, ROBERT 

Bannockburn. 158 

For A’ That and A’ That. 84 

To a Mountain Daisy. . . .. . 156 

BYRON, LORD 

Before the Battle of Waterloo. 164 

The Ocean . 231 


CARROLL, LEWIS 

Christmas Greeting . 

The Walrus and the Carpenter 

CARY, PHOEBE 

Ajax . 

The Leak in the Dike. 

Suppose . 

CORNWALL, BARRY 

The Onset . 

COWPER, WILLIAM 

Providence. 

The Retired Cat. 


142 

50 

97 

125 

103 


209 


154 

175 


DENTON, CLARA J. 

Action . 

“Cease Firing” ... 
Christ Is Arisen .. 

Choosing . 

Columbus . 

Doubt . 

The Flag We Love 
The Giver of All.. 


22 

26 

33 
19 
42 

34 
38 
24 


250 







































ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF AUTHORS 


DENTON, CLARA J.—Continued 


Good Will. 24 

The Happy April Fool. 30 

Honor to Whom Due. 16 

Let’s Pretend . 15 

Maytime . 35 

A Mother’s Love. 36 

My Daddy . 27 

New Year’s Day. 28 

Our Greatest American. 29 

The Pine Tree Maiden. 18 

A Ride for a Vote.,. 39 

The Seed. 21 

The Shamrock . 17 

United . 37 

DRAYTON, MICHAEL 

The Battle of Agincourt. 147 


EMERSON, RALPH WALDO 

Concord Hymn . 183 

The Mountain and the Squirrel. 60 


FITZGERALD, EDWARD 

Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. 202 

FLETCHER, JOHN 

From “An Honest Man’s Fortune”. 154 

FOSTER, STEPHEN COLLINS 

My Old Kentucky Home. 120 


GOLDSMITH, OLIVER 

The Deserted Village. 86 

GRAY, THOMAS 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. 65 


HEMANS, FELICIA DOROTHEA 

Bernardo Del Carpio . 

Casabianca .. 

Hymn for Christmas. 

Ivan the Czar. 

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 

HOGG, JAMES 

A Boy’s Song. 

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL 

The Chambered Nautilus. 

The Height of the Ridiculous. 

Old Ironsides . 

HOOD, THOMAS 

I Remember, I Remember. 

Truth in Parenthesis. 

HUNT, LEIGH 

Abou Ben Adhem. .. .. 

The Gloves and the Lions. 


226 

123 

143 

217 

119 

83 

77 

45 

110 


71 

225 

109 

200 


INGOLDSBY, THOMAS 
The Jackdaw of Rheims 
Nursery Reminiscences . . 


251 







































ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF AUTHORS 


KINGSLEY, CHARLES 

A Farewell . 

Song of a Doll. 

The Three Fishers... 
Young and Old. 


Page 

167 

96 

88 

199 


LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE 
Why Repine, My Friend?... 

LEAR, EDWARD 

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat. 

LONGFELLOW, HENRY W. 
The Arrow and the Song.... 

The Bridge . 

The Ship of State.... 

The Village Blacksmith. 


190 


58 


235 

105 

188 

79 


MILES, ALFRED H. 

Big and Little Things. 93 

MILLER, JOAQUIN 

Columbus . 181 

MILTON, JOHN 

On His Blindness. 153 

MITFORD, MARY RUSSEL 

Rienzi to the Romans. 211 

MONTGOMERY, JAMES 

Make Way for Liberty. 196 

MOORE, THOMAS 

The Minstrel Boy. 117 

Those Evening Bells. 73 

MULOCK, DINAH MARIA 

God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen. 139 

PATTEN, G. W. 

The Seminole’s Defiance. 222 

PIERPONT, JOHN 

Warren’s Address at Bunker Hill. 114 


RALEIGH, SIR WALTER 

Lines Supposed to be Written the Night Before His Execution. 147 

READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN 

Sheridan’s Ride . 240 

ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA GEORGINA 

Boats Sail on the Rivers. 190 


SCOTT, SIR WALTER 

Breathes There a Man. 193 

Lochinvar . 161 

SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM 

Mercy . 144 

Polonius’s Advice to Laertes . 210 

Sonnets . 145 

Under the Greenwood Tree. 75 


252 































ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF AUTHORS 


SOUTHEY, ROBERT 

The Battle of Blenheim. 

Page 

Curse of Kehama. 


The Holly Tree. izin 

ihe Inchcape Rock. 


STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS 

Escape at Bedtime. 


The Land of Story-Books. 

My Shadow . 

Pirate Story . 



TAYLOR, BAYARD 

The Song in Camp. 238 

TAYLOR, JANE 

Dirty Jim . 100 

Twinkle, Twinkle . 76 

TAYLOR, JEFFREYS 

The Dog of Reflection. 55 

The Lion and the Mouse. 56 

The Milkmaid . 61 

TENNYSON, ALFRED 

The Bugle Song. 187 

The Charge of the Light Brigade. Ill 

Crossing the Bar. 249 

The Eagle . 180 

Sir Galahad . 243 

THACKERY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE 

Pocahontas . 121 

A Tragic Story. 44 

THAXTER, CELIA 

The Sandpiper . 247 

THORPE, ROSE HARTWICK 

“Curfew Must Not Ring To-Night”. 132 


WADSWORTH, OLIVE 

Over in the Meadow. 

WATTS, ISAAC 

How Doth the Little Busy Bee. 

WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF 
Barbara Frietche. 


253 




























ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF TITLES 


Abou Ben Adhem. 

Action . 

Ajax . 

Arrow and the Song, The 


Page 

109 

22 

97 

235 


Bannockburn . 

Barbara Frietche. 

Battle of Agincourt, The. 

Battle of Blenheim, The. ... 
Before the Battle of Waterloo 

Bernardo Del Carpio. 

Big and Little Things. 

Boats Sail on the Rivers. . . . 

Boy’s Song, A. 

Breathes There a Man?.... 

Bridge, The .. 

Bruce and the Spider. 

Bugle Song, The. 


158 

184 

147 

172 

164 

226 

93 

190 

83 

193 
105 

194 
187 


Casabianca . 

“Cease Firing” . 

Chambered Nautilus, The. 

Charge of the Light Brigade, The. . 

Choosing . 

Christ Is Arisen.•. 

Christmas Greeting . 

Columbus (Denton) . 

Columbus (Miller) . 

Concord Hymn . 

Crossing the Bar... 

“Curfew Must Not Ring To-Night” 
Curse of Kehama. 


123 

26 

77 

111 

19 

33 

142 

42 

181 

183 

249 

132 

224 


Deserted Village, The. . 

Dirty Jim .. 

Dog of Reflection, The 
Doubt. 


84 

100 

55 

34 


Eagle, The ... 180 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. 65 

Escape at Bedtime. 81 


Farewell, A . 167 

Flag We Love, The. 38 

For A’ That and A’ That. 84 

From “An Honest Man’s Fortune”. 154 


George Washington . 116 

Giver of All, The. 24 

Gloves and the Lions, The. 200 

God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen. 139 

Good Will . 24 


30 

82 

45 


Happy April Fool, The. 

Hearts, Like Doors. 

Height of the Ridiculous, The 


254 



















































ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF TITLES 


Page 


Holly Tree, The. 140 

Honor to Whom Due. 16 

How Doth the Little Busy Bee. 95 

Hymn for Christmas. f . 143 


I Love Little Pussy. 74 

Inchcape Rock, The. 89 

I Remember, I Remember. 71 

Ivan the Czar. 217 


Jackdaw of Rheims, The. 203 


Kitten at Play, The. 102 


Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, The. 119 

Land of Story-Books, The. 171 

Leak in the Dike, The. 125 

Let’s Pretend . 15 

Lines Supposed to be Written the Night Before His Execution. 147 

Lion and the Mouse, The. 56 

Little Things . 99 

Lochinvar . 161 


Make Way for Liberty. 196 

Marjorie’s Almanac . 63 

May time. 35 

Mercy. 144 

Milkmaid, The . 61 

Minstrel Boy, The. 117 

Mother’s Love, A. 36 

Mountain and the Squirrel, The. 60 

My Daddy . 27 

My Old Kentucky Home. 120 

My Shadow. 234 


New Year’s Day. 28 

Nursery Reminiscences . 213 


Ocean, The. 

Old Ironsides . 

On His Blindness. 

Onset, The ... 

Our Greatest American. 

Over in the Meadow. 

Owl and the Pussy-Cat, The 


231 

110 

153 

209 

29 

47 

58 


Patriot, The . 

Peace ... 

Pine Tree Maiden, The. 

Pirate Story . 

Pocahontas .. 

Polonius’s Advice to Laertes 
Providence . 


220 

115 

18 

170 

121 

210 

154 


255 















































ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF TITLES 


“Quite Like a Stocking” 


Page 

138 


Retired Cat, The. 

Ride for a Vote, A. 

Ride to Aix, The. 

Rienzi to the Romans. 

Robert of Lincoln. 

Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam 


175 

39 

215 

211 

235 

202 


Sandpiper, The . 247 

Seed, The . 21 

Seminole’s Defiance, The. 222 

Shamrock, The. 17 

Sheridan’s Ride . 240 

Ship of State, The. 188 

Sir Galahad . 243 

Song of a Doll. 96 

Sonnets . 145 

Suppose . 103 


Those Evening Bells. 73 

Three Fishers, The. 88 

Tiger, The . 160 

To a Mountain Daisy . 156 

To a Water Fowl. 191 

Tragic Story, A. 44 

Truth in Parenthesis. 225 

Twinkle, Twinkle . 76 


Under the Greenwood Tree. 75 

United . 37 


Village Blacksmith, The. 79 

Walrus and the Carpenter, The. 50 

Warren’s Address at Bunker Hill. 114 

Why Repine, My Friend. 190 

Wishing . 101 

Words of Welcome. 137 

Young and Old. 199 


256 















































































































































































